


Taken

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Court Trial, Drawing, F/M, Fear, Flashbacks, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Iraq War, Jogging, Kelly Flinn, Lies, M/M, Multi, References to substance abuse, Romance, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Sexual Situations, Strong Language, Thriller, Torture, Trust Issues, Truth, Violence, Weapons, body issues, could be viewed as a Sherlock prequel, greater good, moral challenges, series 4 references, slow-burn, takes place over a number of years, threat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 85,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: When you get the tap on the shoulder it feels like a blessing to you; a chance to prove yourself. But it's not long before things start to get taken from you. Your heart. Your freedom to make choices and live your life in the way you want to. Will you be able to get those things back or have they been taken from you forever?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> Thanks as ever for your support and I hope you enjoy this fic.  
> I have drawn inspiration from the TV show called 'Spies' that was on Channel 4 in the UK for some of the MI6 exercises I will be showing in this fic.  
> Please let me know what you think. :)

**Autumn 2015**

 

Alicia Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes are sitting at a bar, facing one another. It could be a punch line to the messy joke that is your life and you feel scared just watching them. Not because of what they might do, but because of what _you_ might later. Their bodies are both long and elegant. Her blonde hair is tied back; her face is pale, lips red. There is something equine like about her features. Her bright blue eyes are sharp, her legs crossed, revealing shapely pins through black tights that descend out of the black and white ensemble she’s got on. She’s on a mission and definitely the one in control here. Mycroft doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. His auburn hair looks neat and combed, and though you cannot see them, for he’s got his back turned to you, you can picture the pale blue eyes just beneath, that dominant nose and the thin lips, which you sense, from the looseness of his shoulders are at the moment in a relaxed smile. He’s smartly dressed too, in a grey suit, cream shirt and navy tie. They’d make a good couple. There is easiness between them, which reminds you of the casualness that you yourself had, had with him once. You sit there in your little nook by one of the tables opposite them, body pressed in against the back of the chair that’s on the other side and sometimes sip at your favourite drink. If there’s anyone watching you, watching them then it must look like you’re jealous and wishing that you had what they do, but there is a history between Mycroft and you, between all three of you in fact, that they probably wouldn't even be able to harbour a guess at. Without being able to help it your mind goes back to 1997 and beyond.

 

Mycroft had worried about meeting Alicia for this drink. What would they talk about? He’d had to choose this place himself just to feel more in control of it and Alicia had wasted no time in reminding him that since he was supposed to be making it up to her she should have been the one who’d chosen it. She’d allowed him to do so though and he’d been grateful for that. Not that he should have been concerned anyway. Alicia’s conversation is pleasant and understanding as ever and when there is a silence between them it is a companionable one. He sips at his drink-scotch-and feels oddly happy to be where he is and in her company. The situation that he’d felt all sorts of pressure about has diffused until there is none. 

 

But then Alicia comments, “We've come a long way since your training days, haven’t we?” with a sort of knowing amusement about her and he stiffens. One arm on the bar he leans forwards a bit more, growing closer to his drink as well as her. He sends her a swift, questioning expression, before he contemplates the swirling amber liquid. His hand moves to curl around the glass. “Do you ever think about that time? About F/N?” Mycroft’s body grows tenser now and his eyes flicker, almost growing shut as he tries not to think about those events. As ever they come back to him anyway and he is in the past once more.


	2. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the challenges you'll have to face to join MI6 properly begin you meet none other than Mr. Mycroft Holmes for the very first time.

**23rd May 1997**

 

As you approach the entrance of the cream, circular building on the outskirts of London with its many square windows and hard brown wooden front door your heart rate increases. The building itself is nothing special-plain and looking like it might crumble, it may as well have been earmarked for demolition. Rather it is what you might shortly be _doing_ inside that building that is getting your heart racing. You hitch your plain black handbag more securely onto your shoulder and make your way forwards now, trying to look unafraid as you march and not daring to wipe your sweaty palms on the dark brown pinstripe trousers that you’re wearing along with a matching jacket and white blouse. 

 

Once you get to the entrance your bag is taken from you by a serious man with blond hair and glinting green eyes. You feel exposed, _vulnerable_ even, but try and not show it by giving the man a half-smile, which he does not return. You clear your throat. Your hands shift sub-consciously together. You separate them as soon as you know what you’re doing and push your h/c hair back instead. Another man-this one has dark brown hair and hazel eyes-touches at your arm now. You hear the rustle of his grey suit as he does so and sharply turn your head to look at him. He doesn’t say anything. He just gestures with his head that you should follow him. As you do so, going down the white, obscure corridor-you get the sense that there must be many such corridors in this building-your black heels clack against the floor and you feel self-conscious again. Perhaps you should have worn flats? You think. The man though doesn’t pay you any more attention than he already has. Finally, you come to the end of a corridor and to a set of double doors. The man comes to a stop beside them. He does not hold either of the doors open for you, but gestures that you should go through. After swallowing a little you do so. There are a lot of people already there-you make the figure up to nine-and as they sit at the far end of the largely bare, draughty room on the old lumpy settee’s and armchairs that form a square they all look at you. Your back straightens and you feel yourself stiffening, but you try and hold your head up high and exude an air of confidence. If you don’t then you might find that this lengthy job interview will be over. You get closer and start to eye the other candidates a little more yourself. As you’d expected they are mainly men and all seem to be a little older than your age of twenty-one. There are only two other women there, one with blonde hair, the other chestnut, and Miss. Chestnut in particular, her body turned towards Miss. Blonde’s as they sit close together on one of the settee’s gives off the air of not wanting to include you in their little group. You feel a little irked by such behaviour-you presume that you’ll all have to work together in the course of trying to get this job after all-but you’re not overly bothered by it. You hadn’t come here thinking that you’d make friends after all, not with the job that you’re going for. You go and perch at the end of a different brown settee. A man with grey eyes and dark hair is sitting at the other end of it. You can smell the scent of cigarettes on his dark suit. It rather lowers the expense that he must have spent on the clothing, along with his silver tie, white shirt and polished black shoes. He gives you a little look, as if you’ve rather interrupted his train of thought. But then, with much gesturing of his hands and in a rather posh voice he goes on to talk to the brown haired man who’s standing next to him, polishing his spectacles on his cheap and ill-fitting grey suit. Mr. Spectacles nods at you distractedly. Your gaze goes to the transparent coffee table in the centre of the seats that’s full of the day’s newspapers. You feel an itch to grab one and read, but you really shouldn't you think. You’ve spent a lot of time contemplating this day. Its been a whole month since you’d heard that you’d passed the initial stages and a week since you’d been invited here today. You know that somehow, through cameras or even a human being, you’re probably being watched. The newspapers have probably been put there as a test to see who will take the easy way out rather than trying to communicate with the others. You look around again, chewing on your lip as you try to figure out whom you can draw into conversation or interrupt. To your surprise you see that one of the men, sitting directly opposite you on another settee, is reading one of the newspapers. You try and remember how everyone had looked when you’d first come in to learn who it is, but you can’t. Whoever he is he either hadn’t made much of an impact on you or he knows how to blend in. You now take in the fact that the man is wearing an expensive looking grey suit with a white shirt, a yellow tie, which you can just see the tip of and polished dark shoes. He’s sitting there with his legs apart, looking rather dominant despite the passive activity that he’s taking part in. You can’t see his face or even what colour his hair is, but the fingers that are curled around the paper he’s holding _-The Times-_ are pale and slender. Your eyes drift back down to the newspapers again. Perhaps reading one wouldn't be so bad? The man’s still managing to look impressive and he’s chosen a respected publication. Surreptitiously your hand begins to dart towards the table, before it falters. What if this man is a fully trained spy? Not a candidate, but someone whose been planted there to keep an eye on everyone and encourage such mistakes? You can’t know that he’s testing you, but not in the way that you think he is. He’d watched you just as all the others had when you’d first come in, noticed that you were physically attractive, but felt more of a kinship with what he was sensing was going through your mind in that moment. Such a thing had been helped by his perceptiveness and ability to read people like newspapers. Now, in a test to see how much of that connection is really true, he waits to see if you’ll copy him and read a newspaper too. Not knowing that however you find your e/c eyes glancing at the man again. You release a sharp breath. He’s not reading any more. He’s still got the newspaper held up in front of him yes, but now you can see his already thinning auburn hair despite the fact that he can’t be that much older than you and the tops of his blue eyes, which seem dark as they peek at you and are framed by pale eyelashes. You swallow and your legs shift against each other as your hand automatically pulls the first newspaper it grasps hold of up in front of you. It takes you a moment to become aware of what you’ve picked up. _The Daily Mirror._ Okay, not bad, you think. You’d rather that it was something that came off as outwardly being more intelligent _-The Financial Times_ perhaps-but it’s not as bad as it could have been. You could have picked up _The Sun_ or _News of the World_ after all. You open it to a random page and begin to read. You’ve only read a paragraph though-something vague about how Tony Blair, Britain’s new Prime Minister, wants the special relationship with America to become an even stronger one, you don’t really know, you’re finding it a little hard to concentrate-when your eyes can’t resist looking out over the top of your paper again. The man that had been looking at you before is watching you once more, or perhaps still watching you. You think that you can’t exactly be sure on that point. You see the skin around his eyes crinkle, before he returns to his newspaper. You do the same. You start to focus and settle down properly, though you still feel a little tense about everything. You read about how Kelly Flinn, the US Air Force’s first female bomber pilot certified for combat has accepted a general discharge in order to avoid a court martial. Flinn had tried to cover up an affair that she’d been having, but been found out. 

 

“Do you think the same treatment would occur here?” a soft, well-spoken voice suddenly asks you. You jump. Your first instinct is to lower your paper and look across at where the auburn haired man had been, only to discover that he’s not there any more and is instead standing beside you. He bends down and taps at the article about Flinn with his finger as if to remind you about what he’d just said. As he does so the strands of his auburn hair become clearer to you, they look more brittle close up and the light intermingles with each one, casting different shades of colour across his hair. You peer up at him as he pulls away. His eyes look paler now, like frost on the ground in winter. It’s curious, but he seems younger up close, more vulnerable. He’d looked serious from afar, though you suppose there had been something else there too from the way that he’d looked at you. A slightly playful edge despite the sombre tone of the day. “You’re probably right,” he says, ignoring the fact that you haven’t uttered a word, “It more than likely would. Flinn did lie after all. Even she probably saw in the end that it was easier to accept what she did and choose the lesser of two evils.”

 

You open your mouth. “But don’t you think that on the basis of her protecting her job, and perhaps even that relationship, that she was”- you break off when there comes a noise at the door and look across. The tenth candidate, another man, who you’d guess to be in his thirties with strawberry blond hair and blue eyes walks in. He scowls a bit as he notices you all looking at him. 

 

“Right to lie?” the auburn haired man says, finishing off your question. “Perhaps. Some circumstances do call for lies, but only if the deceit is for the greater good.” He looks at you consideringly. 

 

You’re just about to ask what circumstances he’d class as qualifying for the greater good when suddenly the man who had taken your bag and the man who’d shown you in appear. Silent as ever something about their presence makes everyone who isn't already, stand. The paper tumbles out of your hands and flushing in embarrassment you pick it up and fling it back onto the coffee table. Beside you the auburn haired man clears his throat. Your hands want to fidget again, but you don’t dare let them. Without a word the two men who’d just entered turn and exit through a side door. All the candidates glance at each other uncertainly, before you all follow after them. 

 

You end up walking in pairs with the dark haired man who’d broken out of his words beside you and the auburn haired man just in front of you. He’s taller than you, but there’s something more reassuring than threatening about that height in that moment. You’re not sure what to make of anyone really though. After all you’re all up against each other and trying to secure yourselves a job in MI6. You probably shouldn't trust any of them. 

 

You’re taken into what must be the heart of the building, where the attempts to cover up the infrastructure, as plain and feeble as they have been up until this point, fade away, revealing a chunk of metal beams and clanging steps that lead you down into a dimly lit pit. Your heart rate accelerates and your hand feels sweaty against the metal railing of the steps. At the centre of the pit are singular wooden desks. Five behind five. Already there at the front are two men and a woman. All of them are middle-aged. The man in the centre has dark brown floppy hair and glasses. He’s in a dark suit and a brown shirt. His thin lips are in a serious line. The man beside him has fading blond hair that threatens to touch his shoulders, a very pale face and dark blue eyes. He’s in a dark suit with an open-necked white shirt. Whilst the woman has a dark jacket on over a black top and is also wearing a pencil skirt of the same colour. Her hair is pale and blonde and hangs around her shoulders in curls. Her lips are thin, but red and her sharp blue eyes observe each and every one of you intently as you take your seats by the desks. You sit at the end of the first row and wait. 

 

“I'm Richard,” the glasses wearing man says, “Beside me are Sam and Marie.” You wonder if those are their real names. “You have all been brought here today because you’ve passed the initial stages of this process. Up until this point there’s only been one person who you’ve confided in about going up for this job. We have made contact with that person and questioned them about your suitability. The rest of your friends and families don’t know. It’s vital that, that level of deception continues regardless of the process getting more serious. If we find out that it has not at any point or find out that any discussions have been taking place between you and someone who is not part of this process then I'm afraid you will be told to automatically leave no matter how well you might have done before that point.” You can hear the scraping of movement against the floor as some of the candidates shift their position uncomfortably. The warnings follow each other for a good five-ten minutes after that. You’re almost getting used to them in fact when Richard’s words come to a sudden halt. His eyes meet all of yours and you don’t blink when they come to you. “You are being watched,” he says, and for that one moment it feels like he is just talking to you and you swallow. He looks away again. “You will continue to be watched even when you leave this building. Even when you think you are not.” You swallow once more. “Your first task is to stay up until four o’ clock tomorrow morning. It is vital that no matter what you do before hand you are at your respective places of address when that time comes because the next part of the task will only become clear if you are. That is all. Although,” he says with a bit of a wry smile upon his face, “I would advise you not to go out drinking tonight.” 

 

Free to go you feel a little thrown by the odd instruction to stay up late. It feels more like a challenge your friends and you would have set yourselves at sleepovers when you were younger, not anything that could have come from a qualified MI6 officer, but everyone else is getting up to leave, so you do so too. 

 

Some of the candidates talk to each other as you go back through the building, but you don’t. The auburn haired man doesn’t talk to any one either. 

 

As soon as you get your bag back you leave the building without looking around. 

 

*

 

It is a relief in one sense to get back to your small flat and close the door behind you. You’d been twitchy the entire journey back, on the Tube, on the bus, looking around, fidgeting with your hands and bag and wondering if any one you saw was watching you. Now, when you’re standing with your back to the door of your silent flat, you look from the slightly messy kitchen area that’s to the left to the circular table that’s beyond that, and then to the sitting area that’s off to the right. The standby light that’s on your TV winks at you. A washed up dish slides against another as they wait to be dried. Your heart jumps as your head turns to look at it. You swallow and inwardly chide yourself for being so stupid. If someone’s watching you with a hidden camera or something of the sort then as long as you don’t fall asleep or go against what you’ve been told then you’ve got no reason to worry. Still, you can’t help but go across, dump your bag on the table and walk past the kitchen area and through the door that leads to your bedroom. Your double bed greets you, looking as inviting as ever with its plush white pillows and f/c throw. A puddle of clothes lies on it in the exact rumpled state that you’d left them in first thing this morning. Your wardrobe door is also slightly open and just the way you’d left it. You’d woken early enough, but felt too riled to be tidy. You put the clothes away now, close the wardrobe door properly and then begin your search. You drop to your hands and knees, inspecting the f/c rug that’s on the wooden floor by your bed for any signs of dirt. You find a few specks of mud that you’re sure hadn’t been there this morning and feel invigorated by the sight of them, like you’re on the right path and doing the correct thing after all. You stand and move around, looking at the walls next. You stand on a chair and move your hands across the top of your wardrobe and anywhere else that might have something hidden. Finally you come across a little camera that’s been wedged at the top of your radiator opposite your bed, in between all the grooves. It’s only visible if you look at it from a certain angle. You crouch down so you can look directly into it. 

 

*

 

“Oh, I think, yes, F/N’s found us,” Sam says to Richard as the two men sit in a cold room with headphones on and watch the screens that are showing all the candidates bedrooms. 

 

* 

 

“All right. I'm not going to cheat,” you tell whoever’s at the other end. “You can stay there.” You stand up. “I won’t switch the heating on in this room either,” you say with a bit of a wry smile, before you move away again.

 

*

 

“Bad move F/N,” Richard murmurs, “The camera should have been taken out anyway. What makes you so sure that it’s down to us? Someone else could have gotten in there. But, because it’s what you’re expecting…” he trails off deliberately. 

 

“I can see you’re being as dramatic as ever,” Marie walks in, coffee in a plastic cup in hand. “I hope you two are doing proper work down here.” She joins them by the screens now, standing behind them and looking down at them severely. 

 

“You could have got us one,” Sam protests, tilting his head back to look at her. 

 

“If I don’t do it for my husband then I'm certainly not going to do it for you,” Marie tells him. Sam lets out a groan and there’s a quirk to Marie’s lips as she lifts the plastic lid a little off the cup with her fingers, allows some of the steam to come out of it and then attempts to cool the burning liquid by blowing on it. She’s the more experienced of the three and also the busiest, hence the fact that sometimes Richard has to take the lead more than her. She finds it amusing to deal with Sam and him, especially Sam who’s so easy to trounce in verbal comments. 

 

Sam turns back to Richard. “To be fair,” he counters, “At least F/N located it.” Marie focuses on the screens now. “Some of the others haven’t even looked.” At this he glances pointedly at the screen, which is following Britney, the chestnut-haired candidate. It’s not picking her up at the moment-it had been decided that even if the candidates tried to sleep elsewhere then they wouldn't be very comfortable doing so because all the bedrooms have been covered and if they dared to have the nerve to try and sleep at a friend’s then that would be picked up by the people following them-but they can hear her singing off-key very loudly as she makes a cup of tea. Marie snorts. 

 

“Yet Mycroft’s the only one whose removed it,” Richard says, and all three of their gazes go to the inside of Mycroft’s bin, which is the view that they've now been granted, like three greyhounds on the scent of a rabbit. “Even if he did so in a rather crude manner,” Richard finishes. Marie smiles. These possible new recruits are going to be interesting. 

 

*

 

It’s two in the morning. You’re so tired. Eleven is usually the latest that you go to bed and since you hadn’t exactly had a good sleep the previous night you’re feeling pretty drained from everything. You’ve done a lot of things you can think of to entertain yourself. You’ve read, watched more rubbish on TV than you have for a long time and even drawn. Now, too tired to do anything and fed up of watching TV, you’re sitting in your armchair in the semi-darkness waiting. Letting out a bit of a sigh you heave yourself up and decide to make yourself another cup of tea. 

 

*

 

Ten to four. Thank God. Ten more minutes and you’ll be able to find out what the cause of this has all been and hopefully get to bed very shortly after that. But four comes and passes without any incident. You sit up a little straighter and chew on your lip. Had you misheard the time? Have you missed something? You get up, wander into your bedroom, switch the light on and look into the camera. It gives you nothing. You wander back to the sitting area and wait. Slowly your body, too heavy with tiredness for any more drama today, begins to slide back. Your eyes slip shut, just for a moment, but then for a lot longer. 

 

*

 

When you wake it’s to the sound of a noise coming from the door of your flat. You’ve barely slid to the edge of your chair and blinked yourself hurriedly awake when the door’s opening and light’s spilling in from the hallway. A shadowy figure quickly makes itself visible to you and you let out a squeak. A man, over six feet, probably six and a half feet actually, is staring at you. You can only make out one blue eye glinting in the light. A red and ragged scar is on his cheek. A ball of panic grows larger and larger inside your chest, threatening your breathing. 

 

You let out a puff of breath at the same time that the man says, “Come with me.” You hesitate for a moment. Is this part of the exercise? But then, before your sluggish mind can properly decide, your legs are stumbling forwards and the man, who you can now see is wearing a grey vest over his broad chest and long, mustard brown shorts, clutches at your shoulder, steering you out. You grab your keys with a bit of a squeak and lock up automatically, sliding the keys inside the pocket of your jeans once you’re done.

 

As you move down the hallway together, which seems incredibly light to your just awake eyes, the man’s pudgy hand still on your shoulder, the stench of his sweat slightly coming through his aftershave, you will someone to appear. Someone to notice you and more particularly _whom_ you’re with just in case this isn’t an exercise. You’re wearing trainers now, but suddenly wish that you were in heels again. They would be a lot louder for people to hear. 

 

You make it out onto the shadowy pavement without any one coming. The man nods at a black Range Rover and sees you inside the back of it. Next to you is a short piece of maroon cloth. 

 

“Put that on,” the man says, seeing you staring down at it from where he’s now in the driver’s seat. 

 

You look at him. “Where are we going?” you ask him, and it’s a relief when your voice comes out pretty much steady. He doesn’t answer. Thinking you better do as he says you put your seatbelt on first and then the blindfold. You feel the shadow of the man shifting back to the front again. The engine starts in the next moment. 

 

You don’t know how long it takes. All you know is that your body becomes aware of every bump and groove in the road, aware of every jerk each time the car turns and your body goes swaying one way and then the other. Aware of how quickly your heart is racing. But by the time the car finally rolls to a stop, apparently on an uneven slope if the way that your body feels tempted to lean forward is anything to go by, you let out a breath in what feels like the first time in forever you do know that there’s a distinct prickling of sweat beneath your armpits and that the tiny bit of light, which filters through your blindfold is paler and more profound than it once was.

 

You hear some shuffling coming from the front, the click of a car door being pushed ajar and then slamming again. In the next moment the car door closest to you is opening. You feel a draught of early morning air hit your thighs. Then your body arches forwards as the man tugs you forwards, slipping your seatbelt off and then swings you around. You clamber down clumsily out of the car and as soon as your feet hit hard, unforgiving ground, that’s when your legs really begin to wobble. You inwardly curse them for doing so, but that just seems to make things even worse and you feel like a newborn lamb falling against its mother side as the man guides you forwards. Your feet begin to crunch against something and you think that you might be able to hear the faint sound of birdsong in the background. You wonder if you’re being led through a forest somewhere. Oh God. Your heart jumps. What if this isn't part of the exercise? You’ve been clinging onto the hope that it is, even though it had come after time. But what if it isn't? What if this is actually happening for real and you haven’t even struggled or tried to flee? What if you’re about to be killed and buried in a shallow grave somewhere? Your breaths start to come out quickly in between your parted lips. You try and regulate it. Whether this is real or not it will do you no good to fall apart now. The man’s grip on you grows, but still he doesn’t say anything. 

 

You walk for what feels like an agonizing long time, but is probably only a few minutes. Then you come to a momentary stop, before you’re drawn forwards again. This time you’re guided up a step and into what must be an outbuilding of some kind. As you’re taken down a narrow pathway between two walls-cold, but painted stone you’d wager as your fingers brush against them and you feel something flaking off-you can feel the cool air swirling around you. You don’t think the building has a roof, or not one that fully covers it all anyway. You feel the space growing wider, feel the man letting go of you and stepping aside and you move forwards. You feel his hands on your shoulders from behind you in the next moment. You swallow. He pushes you ahead until you come to a barrier of some kind. A fence? You wonder as you lift your hands up. It feels kind of prickly and wooden. But then the man steps back and you feel another presence by your side. You jump. You hadn’t realized there’d been any one else near by. Suddenly you feel something nudging at your hand. Your fingers twist and struggle to grasp hold of it. Cold metal. A gun you realize with some horror as you come to be holding the object all on your own. 

 

“There’s a target in front of you,” says a voice and your heart does a little jump and you feel like almost crying in relief because you recognize it as being Richard’s. This must be an exercise after all! Thank God! “You have thirty seconds to decide what you want to do.” 

 

You lift the gun shakily up in front of you. “An armed target? A threat?” you ask. 

 

“Yes to both,” Richard says, and something about his voice sounds grimly pleased. 

 

You swallow and raise your other hand, so that you’re gripping onto the gun more securely. Your finger touches against the trigger, but you don’t pull it back, not yet. 

 

“A couple of meters. Not far. Ten seconds.” You feel Richard shifting beside you. 

 

You swallow. You don’t know much information, certainly not enough to make an informed choice. You’d like to know if there might be other people around. People who might get caught up in the crossfire. You’d like to know if the gun is being directly pointed at you. It had sounded like it was earlier. But you don’t have enough time to check all of these things right now. You pull the trigger back and release it. Your body jerks back as the shot gets fired and you let out a little breath. You feel hands on yours in the next second. The gun is being taken from you. 

 

“You can remove that now,” Richard says. Thinking that he must mean the blindfold you take it off with trembling fingers and turn to him. It’s a relief to see him even though he does look so serious. You watch as he disables the gun for a moment, before his brown eyes meet yours. “F/N, what would you say if I told you that the target was lowering his gun when you shot him?” he asks. 

 

You let out a little breath. Your mind can’t help but feel disappointed, but despite how tired you are and the numb shock that you almost feel after everything you manage to come up with an answer quickly enough. “I’d say that I probably should have asked more questions, but with the limited time that I had I tried to do what I thought was right.” 

 

Richard nods, but gives no clue as to whether or not your answer was a good one. “Go back until you come to a turning,” he says, “Then move right. The others are waiting for you.” 

 

You nod and turn around. Now that you can see it turns out that the building, which partly obscures you from the rest of the forest is a white, stone one and just as you’d thought it doesn’t have a roof. Once you get to the gap in the walls you turn right as instructed. A short, dirt path takes you down to where the other nine candidates are milling inside a gazebo. Apparently you’d been last to do the exercise. No wonder they’d ended up coming to your flat late. You step inside the structure. A few of the candidates look at you. Thinking that you should start doing better you ask, “Did anyone else fire?”

 

“I didn't, but I believe that everyone else did,” the auburn haired man says. He’s wearing the same suit as he had been earlier and standing a little apart from the others. 

 

Your heart sinks. You go up to him instinctively with a bit of a frown upon your face. “How come you didn't?” You peer up at him. 

 

“Through the questions I asked I managed to establish that the target was no longer a threat,” he tells you, turning towards you and offering you the information because the disappointed look on your face has once more made him feel a connection with you. You want this as much as he does, he can sense it. 

 

Your heart descends even more inside you at that. You can’t help but feel frustrated with yourself. It doesn’t help that you can already hear some of the others saying that they didn't even ask any questions and just shot straight away, dark haired man among them, all you can think about is what you should have done and that was to have established whether or not the target was a threat precisely in the moment, before you’d fired. All you can think of now is how the man in front of you had done what you should have. “You’re only a little bit older than me,” you mumble, much to yourself, comparing yourself to him, but thinking him much better. The man must hear you however for his eyebrows prick up. 

 

“You are?” he asks. 

 

“Twenty-one,” you respond. 

 

“I'm twenty-two,” the man replies and you nod. Once more he feels that stirring inside himself. 

 

“Right,” Richard says and you jump a little. You hadn’t even heard him coming down the path towards you all. Belatedly you turn towards him. Marie and Sam come from either side of the trees to join him. “Go home and get some rest,” Richard says. “We’ll see you all at the building we've previously met you in tomorrow at nine o’ clock sharp. You’ll be given the next part of your training then.”

 

That seems like a fair enough deal. At least you get to rest up a bit. You’re running close to empty after everything. You’re just about to make to follow everyone down the path that will take you back to the road where you think you’re all assuming that transport will be waiting to take you back to your respective homes when Marie crooks her finger at you. Swallowing and feeling uncertain you stumble over to her.

 

You’ve barely opened your mouth to say hello when she says, “It’s fine to show emotion F/N, to show passion, but I'm going to give you a bit of advice now that you might find it’s worth listening to. Even at your worst do not show the people who want to do you harm just how bad you’re feeling, for I'm afraid that this is a rough game and here they will take advantage of it.” You nod slowly, thinking that she’s probably just given you something worth noting, but feeling like your mind’s too hazy from everything to properly take it in right now. As if she knows how you feel she smiles. “Off you go.” 

 

You turn and manage to catch up with the auburn haired man who seems to be taking his time. You can’t know it but he’s deliberately doing so. For a moment you just walk beside one another. 

 

“It annoys you doesn’t it?” You turn your head towards him. You’d been halfway through covering your mouth as you yawned and you stiffen up considerably. “Not getting something right? Was that what Marie was talking to you about just now?”

 

“Um yeah, I think so.” Your eyes squint and you lower your hand. He looks at you. He must find it odd that you don’t seem to know what Marie, one of your mentors had just told you, but you’re still processing everything. “As to your first question, yes it does,” you say, before you wonder if you should have. Hadn't part of what Marie had just said been telling you not to be too open with people? The man’s still looking at you though, so feeling like you have to you say, “I mean”-you shrug your shoulders and try and act all nonchalant, whether he’s a spy or someone who would do you harm, Marie’s probably right, it’s best not to show him how much you care-“I know I can’t get everything right, but obviously I tend to feel better when I do.” He carries on looking at you. Feeling a little irked and wondering just what it is that he wants you try to prompt him into speaking when you ask, “Still, you must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself?”

 

“There’s a long way to go yet,” the man says, looking suddenly thoughtful now as he turns his head away from you. 

 

“Yeah I guess,” you say, still feeling a little awkward. 

 

There’s a silence between you, one where the only things you can hear are the voices of the candidates and the forest floor crunching beneath your feet. One of your trainers knocks against a pine cone and sends it skittering off into the distance. You think you hear a woodpecker’s beak hitting against a tree. 

 

“What will you do to combat it?” the man asks, suddenly turning his head back towards you. 

 

“Uh”- you say stupidly, wondering what he means. 

 

“Your frustration at the way the exercise went?” the man clarifies. 

 

“Oh, uh.” You do a little think. “Go for a jog probably.” 

 

“Jogging? Hmm. After you sleep I take it?” The man turns his head away again. 

 

“Yeah.” It’s a relief to come out of the forest and to the dirt filled entrance where a fleet of range rovers are waiting for you all. You begin to go your separate ways, the man taking off in front of you, but before he can go too far it occurs to you to call after him, “By the way what’s your name?”

 

His hand is almost reaching for the back door of one of the cars as he looks at you again. “Mycroft.”

 

_“Mycroft?”_ You do a little start and pull a face at that. Out of everything he’s told you that sounds the most made up and adds further weight to the thought that he must be a spy. 

 

“It’s real,” he says, looking at you with some amusement now, “No lie, no trick. My name’s Mycroft Holmes.”

 

_“Oh.”_ Your shoulders slacken slightly. You go to the car that’s behind the one he’ll be taking. He turns a little, so that he can keep looking at you. “My name’s F/N L/N,” you tell him, before you add as an afterthought, “That’s real too,” even though your name sounds far more normal than his does. You exchange a little smile with him now and a nod and you feel something strange in your stomach, a cross between a fluttering of sorts and an awakening as you get into the back of the car, reel off your address and finally tilt your head back against the headrest and close your eyes.


	3. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find out just how dangerous some of the people around you can be.

The driver rouses you when you get home and you give him word of thanks, before you stumble out of the car and into your flat. It feels odd seeing everything how you’d left it and remembering too how scared you’d been when you’d woke all that time ago now to the sound of someone coming into your flat. Odd with everything that’s happened since. You remember the gun being pushed into your hand and you shiver. You feel chilled to the bone. Only hours ago you’d been sat in the circular building and almost not paying attention to all the warnings that were being given. Now, after everything that’s happened, the seriousness of it all and the fact that you’re entering a world where your life and that of those you know could be at stake if you’re not on form has truly hit home. You have to do better. More than that its made you realize just how much you want this job. You know you can do it. You’re just not operating at your full potential right now and that needs to change. But first-

 

You stumble into your bedroom and manage to see that the camera’s gone, before you fall, face down, fully-clothed on the bed and into first a doze where you momentarily jerk back into life briefly to make sure that you’ve got your alarm set for a couple of hours time and then a deep sleep. 

 

*

 

When you wake, groggy and slow moving, your mind’s still very much on the incident with the gun and on wanting to do better. You feel determined to in fact. But there’s precious little time to act on it now because you have to force a quick breakfast down you and then set off to your current job as a legal secretary. You’re so tired when you get home that night that even though you’d been intending to go for a jog you catch up on some much needed sleep instead. 

 

*

 

Feeling more rested, but still a bit prickly about everything you enter the cream, circular building that following day feeling more confident. You hand over your bag, as if it’s second nature to do so already and follow the same dark brown-haired man as you had before down the corridor. Almost all the candidates are there again in that same oddly barren room and when you see Mycroft sitting on one of the settee’s reading a newspaper you go over there and plonk yourself down next to him. He’s wearing a dark suit today with a cream shirt and red tie. 

 

You exchange a bit of a nod with him, before he scrutinizes you more closely. “I thought you were going to go for a jog?” he comments coolly, looking back to his newspaper. You see that it’s _The Daily Telegraph_ today. But you’re more bothered about what he’d just said. Are you really that obvious? Even to someone who barely knows you? You’ll have to try better to do what Marie told you and not be so open around people that you’re meant to be competing against if you are. 

 

“How could you tell?” you ask, trying to keep your voice even. 

 

“The quickness of your stride when you entered told me that you’re still yet to exercise the pent-up energy that you’ve been storing ever since the other night,” he replies casually, as if he’s talking about a great big stain of food on your face that had been perfectly visible. 

 

“Jesus,” you exhale, your hands fisting up, before they push against the dark trousers that you’re wearing. “No wonder you’re here.” You suddenly feel self-conscious and like you’re too thick to be there again.

 

Mycroft looks at you. “No, as I’ve told you before I don’t have a codename. Mycroft’s my actual name, though of course if you want to believe that the Son of God is in the room with us then that’s your prerogative.” 

 

The corner of your lips lifts up a little, before you quickly look away again when you realize what you’re doing. You can’t allow your guard to fall, that might just allow for another mistake and you have to do better now. If you mess up too many times then it won’t be long before you’ll be out of this process altogether. 

 

“Saying that though,” Mycroft half-glances at you, “I’d _really_ go for a jog when you’re done here.”

 

“Perhaps,” you keep your gaze averted. Seeing that the candidate with dark hair and grey eyes is standing alone and feeling a sudden great need to move you get up and go across to him. “Hey,” you say, fidgeting with your hair, “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet. I'm F/N.”

 

“George,” the man says in a slightly sneering tone. He shakes your hand nonetheless. His grip is firm as he does so and you see a silver chain of an expensive looking wristwatch lurking beneath his navy suit. 

 

You find yourself looking covertly back at Mycroft as soon as you let go of George, doing so just in time to catch Mycroft’s head swinging back towards his newspaper again. You can’t know that he’s wondering why you’d felt the sudden need to leave him for George of all people and feeling irked, then more annoyed, for feeling such a thing in the first place. It shouldn't matter to him that you’ve decided, somewhat belatedly in his opinion, to spend time with the other candidates. It shouldn't matter to him, but it does, because he’d thought there had been something different about you. Thought that socializing and things like that might not matter to you. Thought that maybe just like him you were taking the same stance of observing from a distance, of beating all these people without really having to interact with them. More than that he should not be worried about you talking to George. He’s protected enough people throughout his life and though one of the reasons he wants this job is so that he can continue to do so, he does not want to add any more people to his list. No, he won’t interfere now he thinks. He’ll let you make your own mistakes and more than that he won’t continue to draw these sketchy lines in his head between you as if he’s looking for things that you have in common. He does not need to resort to such petty notions. He is here for the job, nothing more. He might have thought that you had similarities through your actions so far, but it is clear that you do not now. He goes back to his newspaper, actually drinking in a few lines, though if any one asked him to repeat what he’d just read to them in that moment then he wouldn't be able to. 

 

“So, what is it that you do?” You look back at George. Mycroft tries to block your annoying voice out, but for some reason he can’t. For some reason his heart only seems to be operating on every other beat and he starts to feel a little light-headed. He knows this feeling. It’s the one he gets when he’s starting to feel the pressure to do something right. He tries to fight against it. His hands curl tighter around his newspaper. He bites down hard upon his lip. You are not Sherlock, and definitely not Eurus. You are a complete stranger to him. There is absolutely no reason why-

 

Mycroft watches as the spectacles wearing candidate arrives and goes up to George and you. 

 

“This is Nathaniel,” George informs you. 

 

“I prefer Nate,” the brown-haired man says. 

 

“F/N,” you tell him and then the pair of you share a rather awkward moment because whilst you go in to shake Nate’s hand he moves in to kiss you on the cheek. In the end his mouth catches rather roughly against your cheekbone and your shoulder knocks into his chest. Mycroft feels irritated by the sight and rustles his newspaper loudly as you withdraw. 

 

“Anyway, as I was about to say,” George looks back at you with a twinkle in his eye, “I do very important work for an investment bank.” He puffs his chest out now and suddenly Mycroft can’t help it any more. 

 

“If it’s that important then I’d imagine you get paid well enough already,” he says in a cold voice. You turn your head around, feeling surprised when you see that it’s him. He’s folded his newspaper and is throwing it messily down upon the pile on the coffee table. He comes across to you all. 

 

“What’s this old boy?” George feigns shock. “Finally decided to talk to us now?” Mycroft feels aggrieved at himself for acting. He doesn’t know why he had. There had just been something about George’s sneering voice… 

 

Your lips part as you look between them. 

 

“Just an observation,” Mycroft remarks. “I was just wondering why someone like you, someone who obviously doesn’t need the money and who seems quite happy with the job they’re in would be applying for a job like this? Especially when what you already do is so important and all?”

 

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. You’ve never heard Mycroft speak so waspishly before and you’re not sure what to make of it.

 

“Unlike you I suppose.” George looks down his nose at him. “I can see why _you’d_ be so desperate to grab at a chance like this doing what you’re doing”-

 

“I occupy a very”- Mycroft bristles. His face flushes and his hands grow into fists. 

 

_“Ha!”_ George lets out a bark, before he looks at you with considering eyes when you jump. “If you’re wondering about our conversation then you should know that this one is no more than a glorified admin assistant. He rang my place of work once. Had to have something faxed through for his boss. He’s a right suck-up, but he’s going nowhere.” You feel something inside yourself stiffening at George’s mocking words. “Tell me, what is it that you do F/N?”

 

“I'm a legal secretary,” you say, almost bracing yourself to be the next one who’s made fun of. George would probably consider you a right suck-up too. 

 

But George isn't done with Mycroft yet. “See?” He raises an eyebrow at the other man. “Even a woman’s doing more important work than you are.” You look back at Mycroft. You can’t know that he’s trying not to help it, but George’s words affect him like he’s just been injected with a substance that he can’t shake off. In the end the entirety of his middle seems to deflate and he seems to sink two inches into the ground. His eyes rake across the floor as if he wants proof that he isn't currently as useless as he feels. Your lips part. You’re about to say something to him when George adds to you, “No offence.” You look at him. He looks perfectly at ease with who he is and as if he’s not expecting any one to give him any trouble in return. For a moment you feel something burn inside you and trouble is exactly what you want to give him. But then he says, “Nate and I are going out with a few of the others tonight. Fancy coming? Britney and Charlotte have already agreed.”

 

You open your mouth, feeling torn. You don’t exactly want to spend any more time in George’s company than you have to, but getting to know the other candidates better could be useful to the process and you don’t want to look as if you’re anti-social either. But before you can properly decide Mycroft says, “F/N and I already have plans for tonight. We’re going for a jog.”

 

You look at him with a face that says, _‘Are we?’_ But again before you can say anything a voice says, “I'm afraid that F/N and you are going to have to call off that plan Mr. Holmes.” It’s Sam. He’d strode in without your little group noticing. You glance at Mycroft again, before you turn your attention to the newcomer. His faded blond hair seems to be flopping towards his eyes more than usual today. “We've got plans for you all tonight. There’s a business function at seven. We want you all to go there and target someone. Make them want to invest in you.” You let out a little breath, your mind already filling up with questions. “That’s not all,” Sam says, “Each one of you will be taking on a new identity. You’ll be working in pre-decided pairs.” 

 

As if on cue Richard and Marie enter, their hands full of manila folders, which they begin to hand out. 

 

“F/N, you’ll be working with George.” Your heart sinks. You’d rather be working with Mycroft, but as you see George’s eyes glinting as he looks at you, you feel a sense of determination well up inside you to make this work. Perhaps you’ll even be able to teach George a lesson or two. In any case it’s probably better, if you’re trying to be less open and all, that you’re not working with Mycroft. He seems to be able to read you too much as it is. “Mycroft you’ll be with Nate.” The two men nod at each other now and you start to zone out of who else has been paired with whom because Marie passes you your folder. You open it and begin to scan. Rosie Abrahams, twenty-six, an expert in digital software, works for a marketing firm. “You won’t be able to take your files out of this building for obvious reasons, so I suggest that your partner and you use the next few hours to work on your identities and how you might have come in contact with each other. Do you work for the same company? Or do your two companies work closely together to achieve common goals? Plan for the evening that’s ahead.”

 

George sneaks a peek at your folder. “I think it’s clear how Jace and Rosie are going to know each other.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. His hand snakes around your waist, pulling you close to him. You grimace as your hips bump into each other’s. 

 

_“Obvious,”_ Mycroft mutters briskly, looking down at his own folder. He feels annoyed again and once more infuriated with himself for feeling such a way. There’s something about him that does not want you spending time with George, _but,_ his mind argues, George is such an unpleasant person-the fact practically radiates off him-that he thinks he probably wouldn't want anyone spending time with him. It can’t be just you who he doesn’t want that situation for. 

 

“I beg your pardon?” George enquires, rising an eyebrow at him. His fingers tighten upon you. You try and get him off you, but he covers your hand, pressing it against his own and Mycroft feels even angrier. 

 

“I said that your tactics are obvious. They lack creativity,” Mycroft says, looking up at George coolly. “You’ve been paired with a woman and the best thing you can think of is that you’re in some sort of odd romance when in reality the two of you have nothing in common.” 

 

“I believe the saying is, ‘opposites attract?’” George says with a bit of bite to his tone that sends something flaring up in Mycroft’s eyes. 

 

“Mycroft?” Sam calls across. “Is there a problem?” 

 

“No,” Mycroft assures him curtly. 

 

“Then focus on your own story please and leave F/N and George to focus on theirs.”

 

Mycroft gives you a rather resentful look now, feeling annoyed with the participation you’ve had in encouraging these feelings to sprout up inside him, before he begins to turn and go off into a corner with Nate. If he hadn’t felt that weird pull towards you the other day-and yes, part of himself has to admit that it’s probably somewhat _because_ you’re involved that he’s feeling this way-if you hadn’t got up and spoken to George just now then he might not be quite so mad over everything. 

 

“Excuse me.” You can’t help but step forwards, before he can reach his destination. “What was that look that you gave me?” 

 

Mycroft falters, before he clears his throat as a swell of irritation passes through him and continues on his way. He won’t be explaining anything to you. This is your fault. Before you’d walked in the room the other day he’d had a complete policy of isolation and he’d been doing very well at sticking to it. Now however…

 

You can’t help but feel annoyed with him. There’d been something disparaging about the look he’d given you and you want to find out _why._ What have you done that’s apparently so worth that look? 

 

“Come darling,” George tells you. You throw him a glare. “Just practicing.” He raises his hands up in submission, before he guides you to one of the settees. You sit down on it together. You swap folders and scan each other’s identities, before you go on to discuss things more. 

 

“I really don’t think we should pretend to be together. Can’t we just be colleagues instead?” you ask George, your eyes darting across to Mycroft again, before you look back at your partner. 

 

“I'm sure we could pull it off.” George gives a lingering touch to your knee. You jerk his hand off you. 

 

“I just think that taking on a new identity is enough of a big step as it is right now without making things too complicated. People might not believe us.” You don’t say that for some reason your mind keeps going back to Mycroft’s behaviour just now and that’s having the additional effect of putting you off George. There seems to be enough of a rivalry between those two without you encouraging it. 

 

“All right. Whatever you say doll.” George leans back now and puts an arm behind you on the back of the settee. 

 

Feeling annoyed by the constant stream of nicknames he’s giving you, you turn closer to him and decide to get to the point, “Why do you have to be so mean to Mycroft?” You keep your voice low. 

 

“Darlin',” George says, hunching forwards now and talking to you in a more conspiratory fashion, “There are two types of candidate here. There are the ones that are going to go far and there are the funny, odd ones. The weak links.”

 

“Which one am I?” you ask him challengingly. 

 

“At the moment you’re in the middle,” he says diplomatically. Your eyes turn dark and watchful. “But you have to decide how serious you are, how much you want this. If you want to go far then you have to socialize with the right people, the people who can help you on your way to greatness. Not let the weak links drag you down.” You look to Mycroft again. “F/N he’s going nowhere. He’s already on the watch list of our mentors. Heck he’s only here because his Uncle Rudy’s got connections. They came after me because of how good I am, like I'm sure that they did with you.” That’s true. A man had visited you at work one day, saying that there were other options available to you. You, a once chubby girl who had always been picked last for sports teams and who had felt like you couldn't do anything right had jumped at the chance. Felt glad for once that someone believed in you. You come out of your thought to the feel of George squeezing at your hand. “Just some friendly advice. Something for you to think about. Hmm?” You nod, but your mind’s still thinking about it all as George and you continue to work on your new identities. 

 

*

 

You take a short break for lunch and once you return to the room you find that you’re back there before George. Sighing a little you collect your folder from Sam whose been keeping it safe for you, go back to sit on one of the settees and begin to study your new identity once more. You glance up when you hear the sound of footsteps, thinking that it might be George. It isn't. Instead it’s Mycroft whose just re-entered the room. You’re sitting directly opposite the door, so it takes only moments for his eyes to fix on you. But you avoid his gaze by looking down again. Your heart begins to thud inside your chest. You think that he might just go past you. Nate’s already back and muttering to himself in the corner as he holds his folder open in front of him. Your heart jumps as Mycroft moves around the back of the settee that you’re sitting on. 

 

“I just thought you should know,” Mycroft’s soft voice says close to your ear, his hand near to, but not touching your shoulder. You look at him. “That I was in the bathroom just now.” You _really_ look at him then, your lips parting uncertainly as you wonder what he’s about to say. Mycroft reddens slightly, but holds your gaze. “When I heard George say that he thinks he’s well on his way to-um, well,” Mycroft falters. He’s just been so full of the need to inform you of this, because it’s just the right thing to do, it’s not as if he cares for you or anything, that he hadn’t really thought about how awkward it would be to get the words out. You look up at him imploringly. Mycroft straightens up a bit and rakes a hand through his hair. It messes it up and a curl drapes down across his forehead. Mycroft attempts to brush it away irritably, he doesn’t need to be reminded about how young and inexperienced he is right now, but it just swings back down out of place. “I believe the terminology he used was, ‘getting you laid tonight,’” Mycroft says ruefully. Your eyes widen a fraction and your cheeks grow pink, but you barely have to look at him to tell that he’s being sincere, which is good, because you’re finding it difficult to. Look at him that is. You feel a fiery prickle of discontent towards George. Mycroft bends down so that he can speak to you more privately again. “I'm sorry,” he says, and you think that he might have actually somehow come to think that you’d wanted George to like you in a sincere fashion after all. It makes you realize that perhaps he doesn’t know you as much as you’d thought and that encourages you. Maybe you aren't being that obvious after all. “It’s just a game to people like him. I'm not saying he thinks he’s James Bond or anything like that, I think everyone here knows that the process isn't really like that, but he just sees it as another opportunity to maximize getting what he wants. If it helps you then I think that Nate doesn’t like him as much as he’s pretending to.” He gives you a little forced smile at that and in a moment your mind’s decided. 

 

Instinctively, without a thought, without recalling what Marie had said about not showing people who could harm you how you feel, you’re calling, “Mycroft,” and moving around with one knee on the settee, even as he’s already turning away from you. He swivels back to you at once and you feel optimistic by the hopeful look you think you see flaring in his eyes. You go around to him. “About that jog?” Your hand goes up to your hair awkwardly. He peers down at you. His face seems to have become quite tight suddenly, as if he might be bracing himself for something. “I think I’d like to take it up.” A sudden thought hits you. “You did genuinely want to didn't you?” Suddenly you worry that he didn't. That you’ve been an idiot. That you should have focused more on Marie’s words and not exposed yourself, making you vulnerable. 

 

Mycroft’s mouth is just opening to say that of course he did in spite of himself and your heart is thudding with apprehension when George joins the pair of you. “Hey, come on Rosie,” he says jovially, a teasing smirk on his face as he looks between Mycroft and you, “Back to work you slacker.” He wraps an arm around your waist now. Mycroft looks suddenly affronted. It is one thing for George to touch you, but for him to do so at the very moment that he’d just been about to declare that he’d like to go jogging with you-“Oh don’t worry,” George says, letting go of you and punching Mycroft just beneath the shoulder, “We've decided to just go as colleagues so you’ve still got a chance old boy.” 

 

“Believe me,” Mycroft brushes at where George has just touched, “I have no intention to make friends or anything else during this process. I'm just after the job.” You feel a tightening of something inside you, but when Mycroft looks at you, you see the resolve wavering in his eyes. Does that mean the jog’s on? Is he only putting on this front for George? You can’t know that Mycroft’s beginning to question what he wants every time he looks at you. You just know that despite what Marie said there’s something about Mycroft Holmes, which draws you to him and keeps making you open your mouth when you’re around him. 

 

George grasps you by the wrist and begins to lead you away. You look back over your shoulder at Mycroft to see that he’s still staring at you. His hands are in his pockets now, as he tries to hide some of his emotions, but his eyes seem to be telling you to be careful. You nod. 

 

*

 

The function, which is more like a party, is heaving by the time that you get there, escaping the silver lift in the equally silver tower for a room of bright lights, people in various coloured cocktail dresses who carry glasses of champagne and eat canapés off silver trays that are being brought around by waiters dressed in red, white and black. You’re in a dress too, a short maroon one, carrying an appropriate silver clutch purse and you feel like a fish joining a shoal as you step forwards. 

 

A moment later you’re left wondering if George has put a tracker on you because he’s by your side in seconds. “Rosie,” he says in a loud tone, hugging you briefly, “I'm glad that you’re here.”

 

“Jace,” you murmur, remembering just in time not to call him ‘George,’ and the scent of his musky aftershave seems to cling onto you like an unwelcome cobweb as you pull back. 

 

“I’ve already done a sweep of the room and I’ve met some people that I think will be very good for your part of the company.” He blinks at you now, once, twice, his grey eyes swirling with something dark every time they are revealed to you, as if he can bind you to him invisibly there and then. As if all the people in the room might just disappear and a bed might happen to slide in the perfect position for you both to fall down onto. 

 

“How thoughtful of you.” You kiss him on the cheek. As you do so you see Mycroft watching you from behind George’s shoulder, looking very smart in a grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. You can’t know that he’s feeling that pull towards you even more, a tug in his gut, which contains both a deep seated confusion for what he’s feeling towards you and worry, as well as a desire to try and keep his eyes away from both your arms and legs. “I’ll just go and get a drink and then you can make the introductions.” You pull away, patting at George’s grey suit. 

 

You move around him. You make to go past Mycroft, hoping that you can convey enough of a message to him with your eyes, but his fingers slip around your wrist. They feel cool against your pulse and just beneath the bracelet-largely a thin strip with two purple balls- that you’re wearing. You think you detect a scent of aftershave on him too. It smells sweeter than George’s is all you get to realize, before he murmurs warningly, “F/N, I don’t think”- _I don’t think you should be playing up to George considering what I told you earlier. I don’t think you don’t look pretty in your dress tonight, but I'm not sure that I’ll be able to tell you,_ or _how the most beautiful thing about you is that you have no idea just how captivating you are, so please don’t expect me to. I don’t think I can handle what I'm beginning to feel towards you._ He’s felt the flicker of such annoying feelings before, of course he has, he’s only human. But there, if it had been a pretty girl or woman in a street or at his old school, at university, he’d been able to move on from it pretty quickly, just walk past, steer his mind onto something else and repeat the pattern if he happened to see them again after that. This however couldn't have come at a worse time. Not only does he just want to focus on getting the job, but even when he tries not to notice you it’s like he just can’t help but do so. All you have to do is step into a room and he’s struggling again. Struggling with these feelings that are virtually growing stronger every time he sees you. Something in you just incites that inside him and he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

 

“Trust me,” you return in a slightly heated fashion, only getting his first message. No matter the fact that you keep getting pulled towards him you want to do this on your own. You pull your wrist from him and cause your bracelet to jangle. You brush your hair back with your hand and move past him, gratefully accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter coming around with a tray, before you make your way back to George. 

 

He’s eager as a puppy to introduce you to the people he’s already met and you soon find out why-they have nothing to do with your side of things at all. You’ve been set up and you feel even more annoyed and determined to stick to Marie’s words. George had only done that because he’d seen your vulnerabilities and thought he could bring you down. You’d thought that it was only Mycroft who could do that, but apparently everyone can after all. You have to lock yourself up. But, finding it hard to do so in that moment and still smarting from your mistake you fluster your way through your interaction with the people who you’d been hoping might invest in you for the terms of the scenario, saying that you must have been mistaken in what your colleague had informed you, whilst George smirks there all the while. You rescue it by drawing a passer by into the conversation and telling them about your role in the company. They’re much more interested and you smile in all the right places and charm them, feeling more confident now. George watches on in a more disgruntled fashion, but he soon rallies himself, his body brushing more frequently against yours in an attempt to distract you and his hand curling around your waist once its taken the empty glass of champagne from you and put it to one side. Through all of this you notice Mycroft glancing over at you a couple of times as he drifts at the edge of your vision, barely touching the champagne he’s carrying, but you ignore him. You’re not going to let anyone in from now on. 

 

Once the conversation is wrapped up and everyone’s drifted away again George half-turns into you. “Well,” he says, stretching his arms out pleasantly, as if he’s come to the end of a long day’s work, “Think you managed to rescue that.” 

 

“No thanks to you,” you say with a bit of an edge to your tone, hating him even more in that moment.

 

George smiles at you. “Just a little test darling. I knew you could do it. That’s why you need to stick around with people like me.”

 

Knowing the time’s come you purr, “Is it?” and rest one of your hands against his chest. 

 

George looks pleased. His eyes flare. “All in all I think this has been a very profitable evening, but I wouldn't mind cashing in, in another way if you get my meaning?” His hands find your waist again. 

 

“Banking humour,” you murmur, letting your lip twitch upward and batting your eyelashes at him as if you might be interested. You lean up and whisper in his ear, “You can cash your cheque in any time darling.” His hand snakes down and tangles with yours. He begins to lead you away from the room, away from the bright lights, the chatter and fakery, everything that you’d initially hated and found a bit dazzling when you’d first entered, but which you’d now do anything to stay amongst. Knowing that this needs to happen though, that he needs to be taught a lesson, you let him lead you. That doesn’t mean that you’re not scared though. Your heartbeat quickens. Your hands grow clammy and you hope that George doesn’t notice. He’s pulling at you more, tugging you relentlessly into a dimly lit hallway. Your heels clack against the floor, sending an echo of their sound radiating all around you. Then suddenly you’re in another room, one where the tables are stacked on top of each other against the walls. You just have time to think that it’s a conference room, before George is swinging you around and pushing you back against one of the tables, his mouth hot against yours. You let out a squeak at the initial contact, feeling like a diver taking their last breath and you grab at his arms. Your nails dig into them, but George simply pushes into you more, before he surfaces for breath. He pants and stares at you. 

 

“Mm, I’ve been thinking about what you were saying before,” you say, trying to ignore the urge to get as far away from him as possible when his hands run down the slope of your back and settle on a spot just above your derrière. You force your hands to pluck and smooth down the lapels of his jacket instead. 

 

“Yes?” George says, before his lips are on yours. His tongue pushes against your lips and slowly pries your mouth open. His breath smells of cigarettes. As soon as his tongue darts inside you bite down hard upon it and at the same time knee him in the groin. _“Ah!”_ George lets out a little exclamation of surprise now and you can practically see the stars spinning around his head as he staggers back. It’s strangely satisfying, to be able to cause him pain, before he’d been able to do you any. Almost bent double he raises a hand to feel at his bloody tongue. 

 

“Yes,” you say almost as if nothing’s happened, but you feel a sense of triumph run through you, “And I wanted to ask you why you’re hanging out with me? If what you’ve said is true then surely you’d see yourself in the top rank wouldn't you? Which would put you above where you said I was. So why are you wasting time on a weak link like myself George?” 

 

“Little whore,” George mutters, knowing he hasn’t fooled you. 

 

You send him a steady gaze, before you march out of there. 

 

“F/N,” Mycroft hurries towards you, “I was just about to”-

 

“I'm fine,” you tell him, “I don’t need rescuing. I did it myself.” Mycroft flushes, once more feeling inadequate, but a larger part of him still can’t help but feel worried for you. You drift past the room where everyone is still schmoozing and to the side of the stairs. There is so much glass. A building like this could break and crumble in a moment. It’s fragile. Just like someone’s heart is. You can look all the way down through the building and all the way up at the floors above you, see the fading light and you do that for one moment, letting out a long sigh. You put your hands down on the brown wooden railing. Mycroft joins you, his fingers tentatively pressing against the barrier. “George decided to get a little over-friendly, or perhaps it was Jace.” Mycroft smiles at that, feeling relieved that you obviously haven’t gone through something that you’re not capable of joking about. “So I bit him on the tongue, kneed him where it hurts and threw his words back into his face to show him who’s boss,” you sound suddenly fierce. Mycroft looks surprised by that, and suddenly wary. He draws back a little. “Don’t worry,” you tell him, “I wouldn't do that to you. Well”- you quickly amend, trying to be this closed off person again and stop the heat of the moment from letting Mycroft in. 

 

“Not unless I deserved it?” Mycroft checks and there’s something about him in that moment that makes you smile.

 

Marie’s words come back to you: _‘Even at your worst do not show the people who want to do you harm just how bad you’re feeling.’_ People who _want_ to do you harm. But hadn’t Mycroft been the one to properly warn you about George in the first place? Hadn't Mycroft been the one to come after you right now to make sure George wasn’t hurting you? Isn't he the one staring at you right now, looking a little nervous, and unless he’s a really good actor then you’re pretty sure that, that’s not fake. That the thought of you doing what you’d done to George to him actually scares him. You feel a bubble of pleasure rise up inside you. “Yeah.” You turn towards him now, smiling and feeling suddenly playful. It is good to feel this way after everything that had just happened. Mycroft’s hands fidget together. He lifts up one of them to push back his hair and that pesky curl drops down again. He attempts to push it back, but knowing that, that’s one battle he won’t succeed in you dart forwards. “Here, let me.” You push it back, doing so automatically, holding it in between your fingers and smoothing it back down against the rest of his hair. Mycroft’s throat bobs. Suddenly aware of what you’ve just done you pull your hand back from him. It’s tingling all over from where you’ve just touched him. “Sorry.” You can barely look at him. Your face feels hot, red. It’s one thing to think that you might be able to trust Mycroft to a point, that he might not be intending to do you harm, but it’s another to feel like this. “I didn't like George if you’re wondering, in that way.” You have no idea why your mouth suddenly feels the need to say that. All you know is that as soon as it does so you feel more embarrassed than you have ever felt in your whole life and you can’t suddenly seem to look in any direction that’s not down. “That doesn’t stop me from thinking that he’s a bastard right now though,” you feel you ought to add, swaying between wanting to trust him and assert yourself. 

 

Mycroft understands in that moment that though you might not have liked George in that way it had felt nice to part of you, for a moment at least, to think that someone might like you in that way. Understands too that you’re warning him not to hurt you or there will be consequences. He doesn’t really know what to think about either of those things. Feeling awkward again he asks, “How did George react to all of that?” 

 

“Oh, he called me a ‘little whore,’” you say with a bit of a shrug now, “But as things go, well, I’ve never been called that before, so, y’know it was kind of interesting.” 

 

Mycroft looks at you in fascination at that. When George had embarrassed him earlier in front of everyone, made him feel small and belittled like he was of little value, he’d felt angry and sad, but powerless, like he wasn’t yet at the position where he could do anything about it. Not to mention he’d felt annoyed for feeling such things in the first place and for his position being in what it was. But here you are now, in equally as dire, if not worse, straits as him. You’ve just been physically violated and called that, which Mycroft senses couldn't be further away from the truth and you’re taking it all so calmly, as if it’s just nothing. More than that you’d managed to act. You hadn’t frozen up with fear. Not that George should have done that no matter how you’d reacted, but he has to admire you. You’d been faced with a greater situation than him where there had been more at risk and you’d managed to do more than he had. 

 

“Come,” you murmur, “We better go back and carry on with the exercise.” You push away from the railing and Mycroft follows after you. You’d seemed shocked and upset after the gun exercise, as if it had thrown you. You could easily have let this thing with George do the same to you, but Mycroft can feel nothing but determination radiating off you now. You’re not going to let anyone stop you from achieving your dreams. It inspires him and makes him want to do better too. 

 

*

 

An hour later, once the function come party is more or less over, Mycroft and you find yourselves walking companionably out of the building and into the now darkened street together. 

 

“So,” you say, turning towards him as you suppress a bit of a yawn, “I guess I’ll see you when I see you?”

 

He nods, but then falters when you begin to turn around. His hand touches briefly at your shoulder. “Will you be able to get home all right?” You turn back to look at him. “I mean I don’t doubt that you could. Nearly biting off people’s tongues and all.” He shifts his position now. “You’re probably more of a threat to someone than they are to you.” His hand goes to his hair again. You brush the curl away the moment that it starts to descend. He looks almost bashful as you do so and it makes you grin, as does everything he’s just said.

 

“You haven’t had much experience in this have you?” Mycroft just looks at you. You suspect that he knows what you mean, but he looks so suddenly wary that it makes you take charge. “Come,” you say, making your mind up once more, “We’ll get a cab. You can see me home. That way there’ll be enough time for me to give you my number.”

 

Mycroft looks puzzled at that. He blinks. “What would I need that for?” he asks. 

 

The grin comes back on your face. Like you were saying he clearly hasn’t had much experience with women. The opposite of George. That realization makes you feel safe suddenly. Perhaps it would be okay to trust him? But when you notice that he’s still studiously looking at you, you reply, “So we can go jogging or whatever,” with a bit of a shrug, before you turn and hail down a cab. You miss the pleased little smile that forms upon Mycroft’s face. 

 

The cab pulls up and you clamber inside it after Mycroft. As soon as you’ve told the driver where to go Mycroft is tempted to ask how much experience you’ve had. He’s just curious after all. You’re the one who had brought it up. He sees no reason why he shouldn't continue the strand of conversation, but when it occurs to him that it might not be the gentlemanly thing to do he falters. You hadn’t exactly acted in a ladylike fashion that evening though. He opens his mouth. But then you’re nudging at his arm and reciting your phone number to him and Mycroft is getting out his phone, so that he can record it underneath your first name. 

 

“I suppose it might also be prudent for me to give you mine?” it occurs to him, and you smile a little as you detect the eagerness that he’s covering up. 

 

“Just try and call me,” you advise him, “That way I’ll have it.” 

 

To your amusement Mycroft does so right away and you pick up the call despite the fact that you’re sitting right next to him. 

 

“Hello,” he says as soon as you do so. The colour of your eyes dance against one another’s as a playful smile toys about his lips and you wonder what he might be about to say. “It’s not George, so no physical violence should be necessary.” 

 

“Hello not George,” you murmur, “Would you like to go for a jog soon?” 

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches upward at that. “Yes, I think that sounds most agreeable.”

 

“Good.” You disconnect the call with a soft breath. Mycroft smiles at you, before he ducks his head, thinking that he should probably be behaving more properly and not be letting the fact that a woman’s just given him her phone number go to his head too much. It’s not like anything’s going to happen. You’ll probably just be talking about training. In any case he should probably just be focusing on getting the job that he wants. He notices then that your purple bracelet has twisted around and moves it back until it comes to be in its rightful place. He does it so delicately, carefully, his fingers barely brushing against yours as they pluck at the bracelet that it makes you smile. You like him tidying you up. He smiles at you again and the pair of you spend the rest of the journey trying not to look at each other too much or smile every time that you do so. You both fail gloriously and for once you both only feel a little irritation about losing such a thing.

 

“I’ll see you up,” Mycroft says once the taxi has come to a stop across the road from the block of flats, which you live in, once more hoping that he might be able to use the chance to ask the question of how much experience you’ve had. When he sees that its started to drizzle he promises, “Next time I’ll bring an umbrella.” 

 

“Next time?” you can’t help but tease. “What makes you so sure that there’s going to be a next time that you’ll be bringing me home Mycroft Holmes?” You look back at him as you both get out of the car. You can see Mycroft’s cheeks fill with colour in the dim light and you smile, watching as he ducks his head and tells the driver that he’ll back in a moment. You feel like you practically float across the road and into the block of flats, like you’re a balloon that Mycroft’s holding on a string. You get to your door. “This is me.” You jerk your thumb at its rusted red colour and open it with your key, going inside, before you turn back to him again. Suddenly you find the words, “I haven’t had much experience either in case you were wondering. I mean you probably weren’t. Were you?” You look down again. Mycroft suddenly wonders if it would be terribly inappropriate to kiss you on the cheek. 

 

Deciding that it probably would be, terribly inappropriate to kiss you on the cheek that is, you barely know each other after all, and reminding himself of that and the fact that it’s highly wrong for him to have gotten so much pleasure from the more social aspects of the night when he should just be focusing on and reviewing how he thinks he’d done on the task that they’d been given, he says, “They didn't say when the next exercise would be.” 

 

You cheer up at his awkwardness. “Who needs exercises to plan when we see each other when I’ve got your phone number now Mr. Holmes?” you reassure him. Mycroft smiles. “Night,” you say, suddenly bashful once more. 

 

“Goodnight.” He steps back and your e/c eyes and his blue ones catch against each other’s again, your lips both parting to help you record each other in this moment, before he turns abruptly and begins to walk away. He’s only gone a short distance when he glances back without being able to help it. You’re leaning against the frame of the door, watching him. He smiles and you smile and when he carries on walking this time he doesn’t look back. 

 

As you close the door you think that perhaps you should be thanking George for everything he’s done for you that night after all, but then everything crashes back down around you and it hits you. You could have been raped that night. Heck, George could have done anything that he’d wanted with you. Could have killed you. It was just luck, Mycroft’s earlier intervention and the fact that you’d known what was coming by that point that had saved you. You stagger to your bed, fall down on it and cry and cry and cry until you fall asleep.


	4. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft becomes obsessed with an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support. :)

You wake to the sound of a tapping noise coming from the front door. You sit up for a moment feeling disorientated. Your hair is an exaggerated mess. Your eyes feel sore from all the crying you’d done the night before. You think that they must be red. You look at the clock that you keep on your bedside table. It’s just gone six. Frowning you get out of bed and pull your black dressing gown around you, hoping that it’s not your landlord doing an early morning inspection. Tying your dressing gown up you make your way to the door in the shadowy flat just as there comes more knocking. With curious eyes you pull the door slightly ajar and peer through the gap. _“Mycroft!”_ You let go of the door in surprise, but it manages to stay in place. Your eyes can’t help but rake down his form. He’s got a headlamp around his forehead, as if he’ll imminently be going down a coal mine. He’s wearing a cream vest, which reveals his freckle-splattered arms and dark grey shorts. His legs look solid and muscular. Forcing your eyes back to his and feeling suddenly exposed in your haze of just having got up and being accosted by this vision you pull your dressing gown tighter around yourself. 

 

“I’ve come to collect you,” he says, his eyes just looking at yours, “For our jog.” You blink stupidly at him. He stares imploringly at you. You think that he must be able to see the mess that you’re in and wonder if he’d come around so early because he’d wanted to check on you, make sure that you were all right. Wonder if he’d sensed that you weren’t quite feeling as upbeat as you’d made out you were when he’d left you the night before. Convinced in the end that it can’t actually be that you chide yourself and inwardly tell yourself not to be so silly. 

 

Recovering you say, “Well, you did say it was going to be soon.” One of your hands lets go of your dressing gown now and reaches towards your hair. “Okay, um, just stay here”-you gesture at him-“Whilst I go get myself sorted.” Mycroft nods and you hurry off. 

 

You end up muttering to yourself as you rifle through your wardrobe and drawers and obviously, because you really need to, don’t come across what you’re looking for quickly enough. Finally you slip on some dark jogging bottoms with a fluorescent strip, tie up the red laces of your grey, yellow and white trainers and pull on a light black jacket over a f/c vest and sports bra. You run a quick brush through your hair and quickly tie it up in a ponytail, before you call to Mycroft that you won’t be long. He mumbles something in reply, shifting his position a little bit and you go across to the kitchenette, filling a bottle with water, before you make your way back to him. 

 

He looks pleased by your fluorescent stripe, but says, “It’s a good job I bought another one of these,” in a rather reproving fashion. He reveals the headlamp he’s been carrying behind his back this whole time and wrestles it on your head, whilst you utter a sound of protest and stand there in surprise. “There’s a switch on the side,” he informs you and you test it out, before you switch it off again. 

 

You lock up, before you follow Mycroft out of the block of flats. “I take it you do this a lot then? Y’know with the equipment you’ve got?” Mycroft mutters something, but it’s too indistinct for you to hear. “What was that?” But you have other competition as far as your hearing is concerned because when you make it outside something is reversing loudly and the wind is blowing amongst the steady stream of traffic. Mycroft begins to take off, as if he might burst straight into a jog, but you cry, “Shouldn't we warm up first?” 

 

He falters and looks back over his shoulder at you. “I suppose.” He re-joins you somewhat sheepishly and you go into the stretches that you’d normally do, twisting your arms out to the side of you and bending your legs. Mycroft goggles at you for a moment, before he copies what you’re doing. “Sorry,” he says, “This is my first time jogging outside. I usually just go on my treadmill.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ you say, feeling surprised, then oddly touched as you wonder if he’d bought the headlamps especially for this purpose. Again that’s exactly what he’d done. “Well we could just go to the gym together if that’s what you’d prefer?” 

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “It’ll do me good to get some fresh air. Besides, it gives me a chance to use these.” He plucks at his shorts as you both straighten up again, before he curses himself inwardly a moment later. Of all the things he could have said that was probably one of the daftest. Jogging just so that he can use his shorts! You’ll start thinking him strange if he keeps coming out with things like that. Then you won’t want to be around him any more. A vision of George touching your waist quickly pops into his head, but it quickly bursts again when you jog past him with a smile on your face. 

 

“Yeah. I’ll have to get myself a pair. Where did you get yours from?” you question, looking back at him and Mycroft smiles because you don’t seem to be noticing how strange and awkward he is, before his face becomes more serious as he considers your question. 

 

“Oh,” he says, his face turning a little red as if he wonders if he should be truthful or not. “They were quite expensive actually, though they might not look it.”

 

Again you feel a flicker of surprise run through you, though you think that you should have guessed such a thing from the suits he wears. “Your family’s- _rich?”_ you venture carefully. 

 

“Not exactly poor,” Mycroft says, feeling suddenly self-conscious again. He hopes that this is another thing that won’t come between you. 

 

“Right,” you pant, and as the two of you fall silent and mainly focus on where you’re going with Mycroft taking the lead your mind can’t help but go back to what George had said about Mycroft’s Uncle Rudy. Is Mycroft really only here because of him? You wonder. That wouldn't exactly make you not trust him, which you’re pretty sure that you do now on the whole though you’re still trying to be cautious, Mycroft can’t help who he’s related to after all and if you had connections then you’re pretty sure you would have used them too, who wouldn't? But it would make you question perhaps the validity of him being there more and probably make you a little mad too when you feel like you’re working so hard to stay in the process. If you didn't stay and Mycroft did would it be just because of his uncle or would it actually be because he’s better than you at this sort of thing? 

 

As you both flick your headlamps on and your feet pound against the pavement Mycroft is doing some thinking of his own. He doesn’t mention what it’s about though until you’re taking a brief break, sitting on a bench close to a bridge and looking out across the Thames. You sip at your water greedily, leaning forwards, whilst Mycroft sits back and says, “What made you not think I was an undercover spy any more?” You look at him in shock. He half-glances at you, before his eyes peruse the rippling sludge black water again. “I could tell that you didn't trust me at first. You were guarded, wary, but I don’t think that you would have voluntarily chosen to give me your number and spend time with me if you still believed that, so what’s changed?” he asks. 

 

“Well,” you begin carefully, looking at the river yourself now as his eyes go to you and deciding that it’s probably best not to use the word _‘trust,’_ “I suppose the way that you behaved with George yesterday and the fact that you looked out for me told me that you probably weren’t the spy if there is one. Of course you could just be a good actor and this could all be to get me on side.” Here you look at him in a scrutinizing fashion. His face seems to have both grown dark and a little more uncertain at the mention of George. “What made you talk to me?” you ask, allowing yourself to come across as unusually vulnerable now when normally you’d try to keep yourself from doing such a thing. He’d opened himself up first after all. Your eyes find each other’s again. “I mean, before that you seemed quite content to be out of the group and yesterday too you seemed reluctant to acknowledge anyone.” You don’t want to be nasty, but you feel as if it’s the truth. 

 

“I suppose,” Mycroft says, leaning forwards, his hands brushing against each other, “That I did so because you seemed different from everyone else.” You look at him uneasily, your mind going back to what George had said about weak links. Had Mycroft chosen you because he’d thought you an easy target? As if he senses some of what you’re thinking he elaborates, “Everyone had a degree of nerves radiating off them as they all walked in that first day, but even though you, like the others, tried to cover it up there was still a sense of truthfulness about you. A sense that you don’t so much want this job as need it because of what it would do to you, your self-esteem.” He lets out a little breath. “That’s why I felt a little annoyed when you talked to who you did yesterday. When I already thought you better than them I didn't know why you’d bother, why you’d feel the _need_ to communicate with them.” 

 

You swallow and look in between your knees now. Part of you feels glad for the fact that he’s seen something inside you, that he seems to think you have potential, just like the secret service once had whatever they might think of you now. But another section of you has been reminded of what George had said yesterday about only talking to people who can help you move forward. Isn't what Mycroft had just said remarkably similar to that? You bite at your lip. Your mind reminds you of the difference between George and Mycroft’s behaviour last night now. Mycroft’s nothing like George you decide, no matter what he might have just said. But still you can’t help but feel worried about how easily he seems to be able to read you. A man like that might be your biggest threat if Marie’s words are true. You look at Mycroft again. “You can tell all that when you barely know me,” you breathe, “Though I guess the gun exercise helped you to see that too.” 

 

Knowing what you mean and that you’re being hard on yourself Mycroft asks you, “Do you really not believe that I wasn’t scared too? To have someone invade my home and take me there to do that? Your face reflected everything that I felt inside me.” 

 

You swallow for a moment. Still not looking at him you say, “Can you do that with anyone?”

 

“Oh yes,” Mycroft’s quick to reassure you, “It’s not a case of you alone being obvious.” You smile at that. “It’s more the case that most people are in reality.” You frown. Mycroft doesn’t notice it because he’s too busy looking around. “Take that woman over there for instance.” He nods at a middle-aged woman who’s slowly approaching the bridge and you follow his gaze. “She’s not mad enough like we are to be jogging at such an hour.” He smiles at you briefly at that and you feel your heart shifting in spite of yourself. “Nor has she taken enough care with her appearance to suggest that she’s going anywhere important or to a place of employment. She’s not carrying anything either, not even a handbag, though I dare say that if the police were to carry out a search of her now then they’d find a mobile phone. So, what do we know? Seemingly no purpose, no smart dress, no bag, a lonely insomniac’s looking more likely wouldn't you say?”

 

You let out a puff of breath. “I bet that’s only a small part of what you can see,” you muse, “You could create a whole back story for her if you wanted to.” You feel suddenly bitter. 

 

Mycroft mistakes such a thing for self-loathing in its purest form. “Not to worry,” he says, “I'm sure that such a thing won’t”-

 

“No.” You get up and stand, taking another sip of your drink again. “You say that I'm better than them, but I'm not.” You hold your bent leg behind you for a moment, before you let your foot touch the ground again. “I'm probably not as good as anyone else in this programme is.” Once more you feel decided as you look back at him. He’s now on the edge of the bench, looking at you anxiously, worried that you’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t be friends with him after all after what he’s said. “I'm sorry. But it can’t be just the two of us.” Something scuds quickly across Mycroft’s face now. He’s glad that you haven’t just said what he’d feared, but he feels annoyed that you still intend to keep in contact with the others. You spin around to him. “I can’t look at people and see them the way you do. All you have to do is glance and you see so much. No wonder you don’t have to bother with anyone if you don’t want to. But I don’t have that luxury. Not if I really want this job, which I do and not if I want to make something of myself. Again, which I do.” He might have contacts and the ability to read people, but you need to look out for yourself at the end of the day. 

 

“Don’t you see that I could read everyone for us both?” he tells you, standing up. 

 

“I need to do it for myself,” you tell him.

 

“What? Like you did with George?” Mycroft says unkindly. 

 

You make a ‘tching’ noise and turn, breaking out into a jog even though you should have probably done more stretching first because you find that your legs have seized up. 

 

You make it back to your flat before him and when you answer the door he says, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.” He looks off to the side of you. 

 

“No you shouldn't have,” you say reprovingly, before at the kicked dog expression he’s wearing you let him in against your better judgement. You cross back to the sink and pour the water you haven’t used out of it. You wash the bottle out, before you pour water into two clear glasses and hand one to him roughly. 

 

“It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” he says, trying to make up for earlier by looking around in an exaggerated fashion and ignoring the way that you’d shoved the glass into his hand. 

 

“Mm.” You only take a small sip of water, before you put your glass back down on the counter to the side of you. “You know that it’s odd enough us becoming friends anyway right?” Mycroft, ever the great talker when you want him to be, shrugs. “I mean, when we’re basically up against each other too?” Mycroft thinks for a moment and then he smiles. _“What?”_ you ask him softly. 

 

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to give them reasons to employ the both of us then.”

 

“You really think that they’d do that?” 

 

“Why wouldn't they?” he asks. “If we've both got something to offer?” 

 

You like the sound of that. It almost makes up for what he’d said earlier. You nod and smile too, before you turn away again. 

 

*

 

You’re in work that day, but you end up getting a phone call just after lunch, telling you to go to the circular building. Escaping by telling your boss that there’s a family emergency you make your way there. 

 

“F/N,” Richard greets you upon arrival, watching as your bag gets taken away from you, “If you’d follow me please?” You swallow, but try to nod as confidently as possible. Inside you’re almost as nervous as you’d been on your first day there. Your heart pounds inside your chest. What if this is it? What if they’re about to question you about what had happened with George last night and you’re about to get kicked out? Richard takes you up a curved staircase and into a rather small and claustrophobic wooden room. The only thing that is in it is a desk with hard, grey plastic chairs facing each other. “Take a seat,” he murmurs and you do so. He sits opposite you. “How do you think the last exercise went?” he asks. 

 

You swallow. That’s a rather open-ended question. Should you take a risk and lie? Act as if Richard doesn’t know about what had happened with George? Or be honest with him? You shift your position and your tongue darts anxiously against your lips. Your fingers clutch onto the edge of your chair. “Not that good?” you venture, sounding as if you’re asking him for clarification. 

 

“Why do you say that?” Richard enquires as if you’ve just made a curious point. 

 

“Um, well.” Your heart beats unevenly. You shift again, before you go on more confidently, “I didn't get off to a good start because I ended up speaking to people who weren’t that relevant as far as the target was concerned, but I think I managed to rescue it later on in the evening.” 

 

“Would you call the night a success then?” You hesitate. “I should probably tell you that George and you were spotted leaving the room together.” _Fuck._ You feel a sense of panic inside you. It causes a rippling across your stomach and clutches onto your heart like a hunter who has just caught a trapped animal. Again you try and stay calm. Spotted by who? Your mind whirs. Cameras? A human being? _Unless-?_ Unless Mycroft had got in touch with them and told them everything in the hope that it would eliminate both George and you from the process? Mycroft who you think on the whole you’ve started to trust? “Spotted by a camera,” Richard says, as if he’s just read your mind. You swallow uncomfortably now. “I need to ask you one thing F/N and I want you to be very honest with me. Would you ever use sex as a means of getting information out of a target?” 

 

“N-No,” you stammer, “That was a mistake. I should have never gone off with George…” you feel that sudden fear again, about what George could have done to you, and anger that as far as your mentors are concerned they believe that George and you had snuck off for more privacy. They don’t realize what his angle had been. “But I only did so”-

 

Richard leans forward discreetly. _“Yes?”_

 

Your hands fidget together now. “Because I needed to teach him a lesson”-

 

“A lesson?” Richard’s eyebrow quirks up. 

 

“Yes,” you nod, feeling more confident now, “Because his conduct, and I don’t want to…lessen his chances now or make it seem like I'm complaining about him or anything”-don’t want to come across as a tattle tale, which is exactly what you are and have always been, at heart you’re a goody two shoes despite the mischief you sometimes like to indulge in-“But the way he behaved last night wasn’t acceptable and I went off with him because I wanted him to see that, because I didn't want it happening to any one else.” 

 

“In what way did he upset you and how did you er…teach him this lesson?” Richard asks, looking faintly amused. 

 

Once again you hesitate. “He, erm, he started using behaviour that we hadn’t agreed on for our cover story and whilst I appreciate that there has to be an element of thinking on our feet and making things up as you go, the romance angle that he started to bring in made me feel uncomfortable. He, er, once we got to the room he started to kiss me. When he begun to take things further I bit him on the tongue and kneed him in the groin.” Your face heats up and you look down. Your behaviour last night had certainly been on the more naughty side and thinking back on it now though you feel pleased that you’d reacted in such a way you partly feel like you can’t even recognize the person who’d done that as being you. 

 

Richard can’t help the lazy grin that sprouts upon his face, but he tries to. He sees himself telling Sam and Marie about what you’ve just told him and knows how Marie will surely feel pride at you doing such a thing and hears Sam’s barks of laughter. Both of those things just makes him smile even more, but trying to get himself under better control he says, “Well, I can’t say that I condone either of your behaviours.” Both of you grow more serious and you worry again. Are you going to be kicked out? “I'm sure you can imagine what it looks like too. We are aware that Mycroft was the first one on the scene after the incident and following what you’ve just told me one conclusion that could easily be drawn is that what happened took place after Mycroft and you plotted together to try and incriminate George and get him kicked off the process.” Your face whitens. “But lucky for you I am choosing, in this case, and because I believe that you have been honest with me about the event, to say that indeed yes, it was just a mistake, so get out there and prove to me that I’ve made the right choice in keeping you in this process.” You feel momentarily dizzy so great is the sense of relief that you feel. But then a thought occurs to you and as Richard dismisses you a moment later it builds up and up inside you. 

 

*

 

“Don’t you understand what I'm saying? The only reason that we haven’t got kicked off is because they thought we were too pathetic to put something together.” By this point it’s evening and you’ve worked yourself up into a right state. Your voice is agitated and you’re prickling with unease all over as you talk to Mycroft-who hasn’t been questioned himself-down the phone. 

 

“Well it’s a good job that they do, otherwise”- Mycroft begins, but you cut him off by making a long sound of irritation. “I’ll come over,” Mycroft decides. 

 

“No, I don’t want”-

 

“I’ll be with you shortly,” he cuts off your protestations and disconnects the call. 

 

You make another sound of annoyance and fling the photo album that you’d been punishing yourself with earlier off the settee and onto the floor. It splays upside down just like you’d wanted it to, thankfully not revealing the photos beneath, which although threaten to come out of their pockets don’t. You slump there, your phone slipping out of your hand onto the cushion beside you. When you hear a knock come on the door you don’t even have the energy to pick up the photo album and put it away neatly. You just kick out at it and stand up. You open the door, barely acknowledging Mycroft and return to your post. There’s a hesitation of movement from him and you feel a sense of bitterness inside you as you realize that he’s probably doing his thing again and looking around, getting more of a sense of your mood from the washing up that’s still to be done and by the general mess that seems to have squeezed out the pores of your flat to be displayed everywhere. Feeling more dissatisfied with everything you slump down and kick out, looking moody in your light grey hoodie. 

 

Mycroft finally joins you and moves your phone to the coffee table, his long fingers curling around it easily, before he sits down beside you. “We’re still in this process,” he tells you, sitting up perfectly straight-backed and encouraging, “If you focus too much on the past then”-he catches your eyes sliding to the photo album-“What’s that?” You’re just about to bolt up and say that it’s nothing, but he’s already picking it up and pulling it towards him. “I knew it,” he breathes as his eyes fix upon a photo of you from your chubbier days, your head half-turned away from the camera.

 

“Oh yeah?” Your back slams against the settee. “You knew I used to be fat and how shitty I feel just by glancing at me did you?” Mycroft’s cheeks lose some of their colour. “Well thanks for that. Why don’t you just piss off?” You stand up. 

 

Mycroft looks at you in astonishment. “Why don’t you just get rid of them if you hate them so much?” 

 

“I punish myself with them.” You fold your arms and look at him daringly.

 

Once again Mycroft looks at you in surprise. “You made a photo album to punish yourself with?” 

 

“Piss off.” You turn your head, not knowing how to deal with this stranger asking you about stuff that’s so personal. 

 

“I”-

 

“Look, I never asked you to come around, so why don’t you just piss off instead of making me feel worse about myself?” You look back at him angrily.

 

“All right,” Mycroft says, finally seeming to get the message that you won’t be able to speak calmly with him now. To your regret he takes one last look at the photo of you consideringly, probably seeing how ugly you are. Then he slides the album carefully off his knees and onto the settee. He gets up, passes you and makes his way to the door. Before he walks out of it he stops and looks over his shoulder back at you. “Goodnight F/N.”

 

“Yeah.” You don’t look at him. You feel embarrassed about your behaviour just now and more than that ashamed of who you are as a person. You hear him leaving a moment later. He closes the door softly behind him. You go and sit on the settee as tears blur your eyes. 

 

There with the photo album in front of you once more you go on to punish yourself, telling yourself that you’re never going to get this job, this opportunity to better yourself because you don’t deserve to be happy since you can’t even do the most basic of things like accept the presence of a man who probably, when push comes to shove, doesn’t mean you any harm. He’d just been honest with you after all. Telling yourself that you’ll always be the fat girl in front of you because even a stranger can see it. 

 

*

 

You’re groggy and achy when you wake up, your back smarting from having slept awkwardly on the settee. The photo album has slipped to the floor and is once more splayed there. You huff a breath at it, before you realize that the reason you’d woken is because there is someone knocking on your door. Sighing you get up and amble over to it, the casualness of your stride not betraying the heaviness of your mind. It’s Mycroft of course and as soon as you catch him taking in the fact that you’re in the same clothes as you’d been in the night before and your puffy appearance from all your tears, you turn away from him. Your hands go up to try and do something with your hair even though it’s hopeless. You come to a stop in between the settee and coffee table. He follows you and when he sees the photo album he lifts it up onto the table and turns it to the same page he’d looked at last night. Automatically you turn your head away as if he’s just made you aware of something indecent. You can sense Mycroft looking at you knowingly now, but you clench your fists up rather than look at him. You only look back out of curiosity when you hear the rustle of something. He’s taking a small, square something out of his inside jacket pocket. You can only see the white back of it. That’s until he takes it and places it with a sad consideration next to the photo of you. You stare at it for a long moment because it’s a photo too. Not of you, but of a boy. A boy who has chubby cheeks and who you think you don’t know at all for a moment until you see the short, auburn hair and those familiar blue eyes, which look almost like pinpricks because of all the extra weight. But it can’t be can it? Slowly you look back at Mycroft and tilt your head as you come to face each other. He stands up perfectly straight and endures you looking at him. It takes you a while, but slowly you can see how those chubby cheeks might have slowly flattened during puberty, making his face look longer and revealing the man you see before you now. 

 

“You are not the only one who punishes themselves,” Mycroft says quietly, looking down at the two photos thoughtfully and suddenly, with a certainty inside you, you know that you can trust him after all. “I suspect if someone were to roll up your sleeves that they would find no scars on you.” You shake your head to say that they wouldn't. “Just as they would find no scars on me, but that’s because they’re in here aren't they?” He points to his temple. You nod, feeling as if you’re on the verge of something important, of being understood. You feel suddenly teary now, you didn't realize how much that was going to mean to you. “When I said ‘I know’ last night”-he turns properly back to the photos now, his hands inside his pockets-“I did not mean that I knew you’d once been a weight, which made you unhappy or that you have to fight to maintain that, which you now are.” He’s so careful not to use the word ‘fat’ that it makes you wonder if he’d planned out what he was going to say, before he came here. The fact that he might have done so, that he’d perhaps wanted to try and be delicate with you and that you might matter to him in some small way make you feel flattered. But perhaps he’s just not using that word because he knows what it has done to him. “Or that I could see the hatred you have for yourself with a glance. I simply thought it was proof of the similarity I detected inside myself with you on the first day. That’s really why I spoke to you.” You look at him now, properly look at him, and as your face softens into a smile so does his. “Do you have a camera?” he asks. 

 

“Why?” you question, somewhat cautiously, sensing why he might be putting such a question to you, but not daring to hope. He’s given you enough this morning after all. Perhaps it would be greedy to want more? 

 

“I think it’s time we started to create a photo album that you can look at to make you happy,” Mycroft says earnestly and you feel such a great smile blossoming upon your face now that you have to look down. If you needed any further proof that Mycroft isn't George then you’ve just had it. “That is,” Mycroft adds hurriedly, “If you think looking at a photo with me in it would make you happy?”

 

You nod eagerly, wanting to reassure him, and the both of you are shy now as you look at one another. “I’ll go and fetch it.” You spin around, a little bounce to your step as you head into your bedroom. Mycroft notices and feels pleased by it. 

 

You return just a couple of moments later, carrying the camera out of its case in your hand. You join him, still looking happy, but looking as if you might be trying to control it and then there’s some awkward manoeuvring and flustered apologizing as Mycroft and you try and get in a position close enough to be captured by the camera. Your hips knock into each other’s, sending a jolt through you both and your face flushing. Mycroft’s hand dares to go to your shoulder, before he quickly withdraws it when you look at him. 

 

“It’s okay.” Mycroft’s hand snakes back there. Your hand tentatively goes to his waist and your head brushes briefly against his chest. He likes the feel of you against him and he adjusts his hand so that he can hold you even closer to him, making you feel even firmer and secure beside him. “Ready?” you squeak, holding the camera outstretched. Mycroft makes a sound of assent and your finger stretches to take the photo. 

 

You take a couple just in case they don’t come out all right and once you’ve got them processed and collected them from the shop you find that they’re your favourite ever photos. Practically identical they show a tentatively smiling Mycroft and you and you make sure to give him one, one morning when he comes to collect you for a jog. He looks down at it with a faint flush upon his face, before he quickly averts his eyes. You worry for a moment that he doesn’t like it, but can tell that he does from the way that you catch him smiling at it when he thinks that you’re not looking. You won’t know it but he’ll keep it by his bedside next to the photos of his parents. He’ll look at it every night and every morning and smile a little. You’ll keep yours in the first page of the new photo album that you’d bought and look at it often. You’ll find that you won’t look at the old one so much now. 

 

*

 

After that you speak to Mycroft in and outside of training, go jogging with him most mornings, but talk to the others as well. They’re much more receptive to you now, primarily you think because George has not returned to training since that fateful day where you’d had to work with him. You assume that it’s because of what had happened that he’d been kicked out. You’re a bit less guarded when you talk to everyone now too. Mycroft and you had concluded that if there had been an undercover spy planted in the group then they would most likely have been revealed by now. Everyone that’s left must be actual trainees just like you and that thought makes you feel more confident. 

 

*

 

The crisp and cool early mornings of spring fade into an unpredictable, fairly warm summer. August brings about the death of Princess Diana and September her funeral and still, still Mycroft and you can be found pounding the streets, learning more and more about each other as you train. 

 

*

 

“You know what they’re doing don’t you?” Mycroft asks you one morning as the pair of you pass a man who runs a newsagents. He’s also up early, fixing an unflattering headline about the Queen’s supposed feelings for Diana on a white fold up board outside his shop. 

 

The man nods as you go by, looking surly with the curly wisps of brown hair that fall towards his shoulders and you force a quick smile at him between your breathless pants. “No,” you say curiously as you follow a step behind Mycroft on the pavement. 

 

“Ignoring the real situation.” 

 

*

 

The press ignoring what’s really going on becomes Mycroft’s favourite thing to talk about over the next few days. When you ask him what is actually happening he looks at you as if you’re mad for not knowing already. 

 

“On February fifth,” he says when he comes to a stop at the bridge you always take a break at, “The Morgan Stanley and Dean Witter Reynolds investment banks announced a ten billion dollar merger.” His hands slap against the railings. He looks at you as you stand beside him. 

 

“Well, that’s good isn't it?” you ask him in a nonplussed fashion. 

 

Mycroft shrugs irritably. His hands leave the railing. “That barely made the papers,” he says as he goes off again. You follow after him as quickly as you can, ruing the short break. Usually you’d sit on a bench. You hadn’t even had a chance to sip at your water. “Yet,” Mycroft inhales sharply, “After Dolly the sheep was revealed later that same month”-you remember her, the first cloned sheep-“The papers were full of her.”

 

 _“So?”_ you say with a bit of a shrug as you catch up with him. You open your bottle with your teeth now and take the sip that you hadn’t before, still moving. “The press prefers to talk about a cloned sheep rather than a boring banking deal.” Mycroft looks irritated. “You can’t blame them. Besides, cloning animals, it kind of has big possible consequences doesn’t it? Morally and everything. How long will it be before they move onto humans?” 

 

“Believe me the banking deal that you’ve just labelled ‘boring’”-

 

“I wasn’t saying _I_ find it boring, the press”-

 

“The banking deal will have much quicker ramifications for the common man than cloning will. We've never had it so good financially, but things are starting to change and the merger is a sign of that. A sign that people should be noticing.” His eyes are dark as you glance at him consideringly. Mycroft sucks in a breath. “On February the twenty-eighth two robbers with AK-47s injured seventeen police officers and civilians in a gun battle. The incident, as you will no doubt have heard”-you can’t tell whether he’s making the point sarcastically, his voice is like a steel rod, firm all the way through-“Set off a debate on the appropriate fire power that should be made available for the police.” 

 

“Yeah,” you say, “I heard. That’s probably one of the reasons why the House of Commons voted for a total ban of handguns in June.” You feel a small thrill of pleasure at the half-look of surprise he gives you at you firing your own piece of information back at him. He’s not the only one who keeps up with the news even if you digest it in different ways. 

 

“In April,” Mycroft goes on rather than compliment you, “A hundred and twenty-six day hostage situation at the residence of the Japanese ambassador in Lima, Peru ended. Seventy-one hostages were released.” You’re beginning to sense a pattern here. See that there is both a growing sense of violence in the world and that it won’t be long before the financial situation tilts like a see-saw and you feel a prickle of unease, but you shrug, faking indifference. Mycroft huffs out an annoyed breath with you. “At the end of the same month a murder spree began that ended in July with the murder of the fashion designer Gianni Versace.” 

 

“All right,” you begin cautiously, wanting him to get to the point.

 

“What I'm trying to say,” he comes to a breathless stop at the point where you’d usually turn and make your way back to your flat. He looks at you. His hair is all tousled, his cheeks red, but his eyes are grave and steady. “Is that I think what with everything that’s been happening, and the unrest that’s been stirred up against members of the royal family because of Diana’s death of course, that war’s coming.” He pauses, before he adds more bitterly, “There needs to be something don’t you think? To try and get people back in line? The order of everything restored?” 

 

You stare at him, your breaths growing quiet. It is not a matter of asking him if he really believes that because you can tell that he does. Rather you say, “You really think that war will help do those things? Won’t it just stir up more hatred? Make people angry and sad because their loved ones are dying? Do you really think that’s the right path? The _only_ path? And under what grounds?”

 

“They’ll find something. You misunderstand me I think.” He looks straight at you. “I do not wish there to be a war. If there was another way, a more _reasonable_ way, then I would support it, but I honestly believe that it might be the only way in the end. As sad as it might sound violence is the only way sometimes for people to grow quiet again.” 

 

“Yeah, they will be quiet if they’re dead,” you scoff. Mycroft looks at you with both some surprise and respect upon his face. He likes it when you challenge him, and you’ve certainly done that both mentally and physically. Both his mind and body have never been healthier. That’s one of the reasons that he’d find it hard to ever let go of you, as he’s started to think that he really should be doing now more and more every night. That would be the sensible course of action. Though just the thought of it and of possibly hurting you, of making you sad and angry, and he doesn’t want to think that you might do to him what you had done to George, upsets him, but the process is getting more serious now. More people are starting to leave. It’s probably time for him to lay down the law and do what he should have been doing all along. Free you both from the friendship that you’d deemed strange to begin with. You shake your head. “No,” you say, all clearly and resolutely, “I refuse to accept that, that’s the only way. There must be another.” For a moment Mycroft doesn’t know if you’re talking about the war or if you’d just read the thoughts that had passed through his head and are declaring that he should find another way to get the job rather than one that has to result in the end of your friendship with him. Suddenly he wishes that he could find other ways for both things, no matter what you’d meant. 

 

*

 

On the evening of September seventeenth Mycroft seems invigorated when he sends you the text: **NEWS.**

 

 _Yes?_

 

 **Put it on,** he sends. You can feel his irritation with you from here, but still you roll your eyes. He can’t see you after all. You reach across for the remote and switch the TV on. Once you pull up the news you see that there’s something on about the Iraq disarmament crisis, which has started to feature lately. There’d been something about a man attacking another on board a helicopter the other day, but this time United Nations Special Commission inspectors [UNSCOM for short] have witnessed and videotaped Iraqi guards moving files, burning documents and dumping weapons into a muddy river. Mycroft calls you in the next moment, as if he hadn’t been able to wait any longer. “This is big,” he says, and there’s a tremor of excitement in his voice now that not even he can contain. “You remember me saying how there hadn’t been much of a fuss made about that helicopter?” You remember all right. It had been all he’d talked about the day it had happened, sounding indignant about the lack of attention it had received as if it had been a personal slight against him. You manage to make a quick mumble of assent, before he continues, “Well now it’s like someone’s trying to push what’s happened through and get it the attention it deserves.” He pauses and when you remain silent he says, “F/N, you do understand why this is so important don’t you?” 

 

“I'm sure that even if I don’t you’re going to explain it to me,” you quip, trying to keep part of the conversation light, but there is a serious edge to your tone and Mycroft can tell that you’re listening hard.

 

“This is about more than one man fighting against another on a helicopter you understand? That was big news in itself, but that was just the start of it all. This is so much more. No matter how valid the report is the fact that the Iraqi’s might have something that they’re trying to hide is going to be picked upon.”

 

“You think that it could be used as an excuse to go to war?” you exclaim, feeling anxious. 

 

“Possibly,” Mycroft considers thoughtfully, before he concludes, “Eventually. I think that this might need to snowball and build up into something more first. I think the more likely fact at the moment is that somebody wants people to notice what we’re heading for. The war that’s going to explode between east and west.”

 

“You think that it’s definitely east and west then?” 

 

“It’s looking more likely,” Mycroft says, “My uncle said something to me about how tensions have been rising in America for a while now and they want something more to be done. They've always felt a little threatened by the east, but I doubt that they’d act without Britain’s support. If America said that countries in the east were hiding something”-

 

“Like what?”

 

“Weapons or something. Anything that could threaten the security of their population then that would be a perfect excuse to head to war, no matter how true it is, and all they’d need to convince us to join them.”

 

“You think that the British government would agree to go to war on false grounds?” The thought seems horrendous to you and far too vast for you to even contemplate.

 

“Possibly,” Mycroft says, and you can almost sense him shrugging now as if to add that he doesn’t like it, but it’s something that he can see happening in the circumstances he’s described. “But the most important thing I think is whoever’s trying to get this information across agrees with you that war should be the last option.” You’re not sure if he’s said such a thing to flatter you and soften any fear you might feel about this supposed upcoming war or because he feels that it’s genuinely true. “They must want people to notice what we’re on the brink of and want it to stop, want Britain not to follow America so blindly and want us to find another way.” 

 

You go to bed that night wishing that you knew what that other way was. Mycroft does too. You both lie there in the dark, miles apart, but with your minds very much on the same topic. Two trainees, two specks in a world full of confusion, love and hate. Even if either of you had any ideas what could you possibly do that would convince the government to go another way?


	5. Rudy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Rudy worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support. :)

Your next day of training occurs two days later. When you step into the by now familiar room where you’re all briefed you go straight up to Mycroft. “Hey.” You do a swift look around to make sure that no one’s attention is on you. He makes a sound of acknowledgement in his throat. “I’ve been thinking, you know what you said about someone trying to warn people about what’s going on?” Mycroft nods. “Do you think that your uncle’s got anything to do with it? What you said before seemed to suggest that he’s in the know about these things.” 

 

You realize as soon as you say it that you shouldn't have. For Mycroft’s face freezes up and his eyes turn an unfathomable grey, swirling with greater depths than the Thames. It occurs to you that the little thrill you’d had when you’d thought about such a thing yesterday, when you’d felt a flicker of excitement and wanted to tell Mycroft about it in person because how exciting would it be if he was actually related to this rebel in government and you knew who it was through him? Isn't actually that exciting at all. “How long have you been wanting to ask about him?” His voice is suddenly cold. 

 

You open your mouth, but before you can get a chance to reply Richard, Sam and Marie are stalking towards you. Mycroft straightens up even more. You swallow. You both observe them as they make their way towards you. 

 

“F/N, Mycroft, if you’re ready?” Richard nods towards the door. 

 

Both of you scurry inside and stand behind where the other candidates are sitting on the settees. There are fewer of you now. Only six with Britney and Nate amongst them. You don’t have to glance at Mycroft again to know how he’s feeling towards you. The air between you is thick with tension and radiates with distrust from his side. You curse yourself inwardly for blurting out what you had so unguardedly. You’d let the stupid little thrill you’d felt cloud your judgement and once more you’re reminded that this is not a game. None of it is. You trying to get this job. Your friendship with Mycroft…you’d seen how he’d reacted before when George had mentioned his uncle. Any talk of him should have been treated with caution.

 

“Today you’ll be working in two groups of three,” Richard announces, “You’ll be sent to a park in London where you’ll have to decide how best to monitor a target. If you get spotted then the exercise will be brought to an end. The only way that you’ll have to communicate is through bugs that you’ll be wearing.” You swallow. “F/N?” Richard’s eyes go to you. “You’ll be working with Mycroft and Britney.” You nod. 

 

There’s no time even for a brief discussion before you leave. Two mini vans are there to whisk you off to your two separate parks. Once there by the gates you find that none of the exits of the park are visible apart from the one you’re by since the others are obscured by slopes. Marie shows your team a photo of a hulking man with thick-set shoulders and black sideburns. It’s not the same man who had taken you to the gun exercise, but it’s enough to remind you of him and a shiver makes its way down your spine. Mycroft looks at you. 

 

“I'm happy to keep watch at the entrance. I’ll tell you when he comes in and if you lose him then I’ll have a pretty good view to help you find him again. That is if he doesn’t leave the park through the other three entrances of course.” Britney’s faith in you is astonishing, you think sarcastically, but to be fair this is a remarkably placid display from her. Perhaps she can sense the tension that’s between Mycroft and you?

 

Whatever the case is you nod. You’re in no mood to argue with her too. “Mycroft and I will take a walk through the park. We’ll stick to the path,” you say, “You should be able to see us throughout.” 

 

Britney nods. “Yeah. Just do coupley things, take his hand, swing off his arm, use each other so he doesn’t see you.” You raise a sceptical eyebrow at that and you’re pretty sure that Mycroft’s sending her a look that could kill. If you threw anything at him right now then it would probably bounce off the serious force shield that he’s created around himself. On that note you leave Britney, not holding Mycroft’s hand or swinging off his arm it should be said. 

 

Some of the tension leaves you both as you walk down the path, amongst the meandering people and increase your distance from her, but a lot of it still lingers. You’d like to say something. You’re just not sure whether you can. Your bugs are all in place now and Britney will be able to hear anything that you say just as clearly as Mycroft will. You don’t feel like you can properly work like this though. You’re just about to say something in spite of yourself in the hope that you might be able to get across to Mycroft the fact that you hadn’t meant to cause him any offence, when you catch sight of something. It is only a silhouette, but it is enough for you to get a plunging feeling in your stomach, say, “Oh God,” and spin around so that you now have your back to it, whilst your face pales. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, his back stiff and his eyes both alert and concerned as he looks between you and what is up ahead. Still he can’t make the connection as to what has spooked you. All that’s in front of you is a small fenced off pond the path winds around, more people, but all look non-threatening to him, especially since some of them have small children and-

 

“A heron. I'm sorry. I don’t like them.” You fist up your hands, feeling humiliated. You’d like to think now that Mycroft doesn’t have a game plan that will end up with your downfall, that, just like you he needs this job as a chance to prove himself, no matter what his uncle Rudy’s involvement might be, but you can’t help but feel that he must think you as being very silly. To you, you just feel like you’re showing off another reason for why you shouldn't get this job and you hate yourself for the outwardly reaction that you hadn’t been able to stop. 

 

“I didn't know that about you,” Mycroft says, sounding both curious and oddly pleased to have learnt that about you, but just then Britney’s voice comes through to you both. 

 

“Target spotted. Just entered. Walking quickly up the path. Will be with you in two minutes if you don’t move.” 

 

You whirl back around, making sure that your eyes stick to Mycroft rather than look at the dark silhouette, which is just to the side of him and that strikes this uneasy fear inside you. 

 

“You go on ahead,” Mycroft decides, “I’ll stay by the pond.”

 

“You sure?”

 

He nods. “Go to the far end. I’ll follow him as he makes his way to you and keep in touch.”

 

You nod and shoot him a brief smile, before you hurry off again. You walk with a fairly quick stride, trying to create more distance between everyone else and you. Once the park’s gate is closer you take your phone out of your pocket. You wake it up and start composing a text message. At first you think that you’re simply pretending, but you end up beginning to tap out everything that you want to tell Mycroft. _I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to mention your uncle Rudy like that, to ask you that. I just wasn’t thinking. I didn't mean any harm. You still trust me don’t you?_ You have to look up at that point. You hadn’t realized just how much the thought of Mycroft not trusting you any more, of him turning his back on you and creating distance would hurt. 

 

You’ve barely let out a breath though when Mycroft, as if sensing that you need to hear from him in that moment, comes through on the bug that you’re wearing. “Target has just passed the pond. He’s taking the right branch away from the entrance you’re at. I repeat away from the entrance you’re at, so you’ll have to move. Move across and I’ll overtake him and meet you.” 

 

“Got that. Moving now,” you reply, feeling thankful when your voice comes out steady. You go back to your home screen on your phone and tuck it back inside your pocket. You move on again, trying to do so casually as if you might have just heard from a friend and be meeting them in a different location from the previous one that you’d thought you were. You’re just approaching the new entrance when Mycroft comes jogging up to you. It’s different seeing him doing it on his own and when you’re not exercising with him and for a moment you just stare at him in a mesmerized fashion, before you let out a little breath when he joins you and his hands slam into your shoulders. “He’s coming.” You glimpse the target over Mycroft’s shoulder. “He’s stopped, looking around.” Your eyes go back to Mycroft now. His hands take yours in his suddenly, as if you might be a couple after all. You let out a breath. 

 

Thinking that he’s startled you he lets go of your hands. “Sorry,” he says. 

 

“It’s okay.” You duck your head. Your cheeks feel hot and you feel sure that he’ll notice if you meet his gaze. 

 

“The target?” he asks you gently. 

 

“Huh?” You look up, before you remember suddenly. Your eyes grow wide and your face heats up even more. Mycroft steps close and pushes your hair away from your eyes. You swallow and his throat bobs. Your heart feels like it wants to jump straight from your chest to his. You wonder if he feels the same.

 

“Your hands, put them on my shoulders,” he murmurs, his head ducked, mouth close to your ear, curl flopping free again. 

 

You do so, almost jumping as your hands cause his jacket to make a rustling noise, before, getting control of yourself, you push a little closer to him. Your e/c eyes sneak to look over his shoulder. Your head turns in towards Mycroft’s neck ever so slightly, so that you can follow the target. “He’s close to the entrance now, but still not out”- you duck your head suddenly and it spins as the sudden smell of Mycroft’s jacket and Mycroft himself hits you full force. You can smell the sweetness of his aftershave, which when combined with the muskiness of his jacket helps you feel dizzy even more, peppermint and perhaps aloe vera shampoo? Knowing that you’ve probably aroused the target’s suspicion by looking away from him so suddenly at the very moment he’d looked at you, your hands instinctively move down without you looking and tug Mycroft’s onto your waist. Your heart gives a big leap as you do so, which you don’t think has anything to do with worry about being caught. His pulse jumping Mycroft quickly moves his hands to your back. Every breath he makes sends little tingles all over you. You can’t know it, but the faint snuffling noises you make as you struggle to breathe around his jacket do the same to him. His hands shift and you exhale noisily as you pull back. Your eyes half-glance at Mycroft’s, before they dart away again and take a chance to seek out the target. You catch him just as he’s nodding to himself and leaving the park. Letting out a breath of relief you stand back, pull out the bug and smooth down your hair again. As your eyes meet Mycroft’s you suddenly decide on something, “Will you come to mine tonight?” 

 

Mycroft’s eyes flare with fear. “I don’t think”-

 

“No, I didn't mean”-

 

“Sorry, of course you didn't. _Christ.”_ Mycroft looks away from you now. He runs a hand across his jaw and your body tingles again even though he’s not touching you. 

 

“I just meant…I’d like to talk to you about what happened earlier,” you try to explain, trying not to think too much about what his mind had jumped to. Does he like you in that way? 

 

Mycroft’s eyes grow more serious now and as he nods you can tell that whatever had just happened between you has broken. You look away, not knowing what to make of that. Will you have moments like that again? Or will Mycroft decide now that since he doesn’t appreciate you asking him questions about his uncle he wants to stop all contact between you? You feel that hollow sensation you’d felt when you’d composed the text message. 

 

Marie and Britney are walking towards you. Mycroft and you turn away from each other now to face them properly. You miss the little look Mycroft gives you as you do so. 

 

“Right,” Marie says once you’re all gathered together, “That wasn’t too bad on the whole. There was some good communication there, and leadership from you Mycroft.” Mycroft looks happy at being singled out. “But there were a couple of close moments too. I think a greater amount of focus and not looking at the target as much would have helped. Part of this exercise was about being self-aware and using your environment to your advantage. I don’t think any of you did that.” You think about the heron again and you blush. Mycroft and you could have been together and pretending to look at something in the pond if it weren’t for you. 

 

You only realize that you’ve zoned out when Mycroft says, “F/N?”

 

You blink, realizing suddenly that both Marie and Britney have gone. “Sorry, what are we doing?” 

 

“We've been dismissed for the day.” Mycroft looks at you thoughtfully. “I'm happy to accept that drink back at yours if I'm still invited?”

 

Some of the tension slumps out of your shoulders now. “I don’t remember saying anything about a drink,” you smile, feeling encouraged. If Mycroft’s saying what he is then maybe he doesn’t want to break off contact with you after all? 

 

“I must have misheard you.” Mycroft’s eyes glitter. 

 

Your smile grows at that and slowly you make your way back to yours. 

 

*

 

“I'm really sorry about earlier,” you finally get to say the apology that’s been building up inside you as you pass a glass of red to Mycroft and join him on the settee. You keep a bit of distance between you. He gives a polite sip of his wine, before his eyes look at you steadily. Your heart wriggles nervously inside your chest. You put your own glass on the coffee table, before you lean back and look at him properly. Not wanting to mess up now you say, “It’s really not any of my business what your uncle Rudy does or whether he’s responsible for the warnings or not.” 

 

“No it isn't,” Mycroft acknowledges coolly. 

 

You feel a stab of something. “But I didn't mean to hurt you by asking it. It just came out and I definitely wasn’t implying that I agree with George or anything. Whatever connections you have, whoever you know, you’ve already proved that you deserve to be here. You’re probably the best candidate that there is.” You duck your head. It hurts a little to admit that. Mycroft senses such a thing, but he’s too busy basking in the warmth that he feels at you saying it to try and make you feel better. “Anyway,” you say, looking back at him, “I didn't mean anything by it. I hope we can still be friends?” Your heart only seems to be operating on every other beat. 

 

Mycroft puts his glass on the coffee table and leans back. “Tell me about the heron thing,” he says. 

 

“Oh.” Your teeth chew at your lip and your hands fumble as you look dead ahead. You feel a little anxious about the fact that he hasn’t said whether you can still be friends with him or not. “You’re probably going to think it’s really silly, but I used to have a dream when I was younger that there was a heron and a worm in the back garden, threatening the house and my family. I even had one once where worms overtook the house and turned everyone but me into them.”

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches. He finds it a little funny that you’ve had an aversion to herons and probably worms ever since just because of those dreams, but then he remembers his own nightmares, which he still has and how they make him feel and look at the world differently afterwards and grows more solemn again. “I was probably being a bit overprotective of uncle Rudy earlier,” he announces gruffly, facing the front. 

 

“Oh, you don’t have to explain,” you hurriedly get out, looking at him and feeling grateful for his words, but slightly embarrassed by them too. You don’t want him to feel like he has to discuss things that he rather wouldn't with you. 

 

He meets your gaze and you look at each other for one long moment that makes both of your hearts jump uncertainly inside your chests, before he says, “Well, it was good to talk to you about this. Thanks.” The awkward gaze that passed between you just now has reminded him of the odd relationship between you both that keeps tilting up and down like some sort of infernal see saw as you both feel naturally drawn to each other, but want to keep certain things private. Well, he does anyway and he feels too uptight in that moment to spill everything about uncle Rudy to you. He gets hurriedly to his feet, sends you a forced smile and leaves, before you can utter no more than a few words protest. 

 

Feeling strange and pulling your eyes from the door you realize that he hadn’t even finished his wine. 

 

*

 

Mycroft texts you the next day. He can’t go for a jog because he has to be in at work even earlier. 

 

 _Maybe tomorrow?_ You text him back hopefully. 

 

He doesn’t reply and again you worry that this might be it now, or at the very least that things will be changed between you. 

 

*

 

“How’s your training going?” Rudy asks, in dark blue braces over a light green shirt, having called his nephew into his office, which is the real reason that Mycroft hasn’t been able to go out with you that day. Uncle Rudy tries to keep himself clean-shaven. It works so much better with his interests. But its been busy in work of late, stressful, and a two day old patch of brown stubble is starting to make its presence known on his long face. Underneath his rapidly disappearing and white turning wiry brown hair his eyes glow almost amber as they rest beneath his glasses. In reality they are hazel. They barely glance up at him from his paperwork. His office is dark and orderly. He has to hide his true self. Mycroft hates it; it always makes him feel uncomfortable and has been the one thing to make him question getting into this type of job in the first place. Although the idea of being someone else sometimes does appeal to him. He chooses to stand rather than sit. 

 

“Fine,” he says curtly.

 

“Yes?” Rudy looks at him properly now. His hand pushes the ashtray towards the edge of his desk. Mycroft knows that his uncle keeps the ashtray to pretend to be a product of his time. For good effect he smokes one cigarette every morning, so that his office will continue to smell of the smoke throughout the day. [“Handy things cigarettes,” Rudy had once told him, “You can find out a lot of things and join all sorts of clubs because of them.” He’d gone on to give Mycroft a packet of them then, which he’s carried about with him ever since. Mycroft had been a gangly nineteen-year-old then. “Don’t tell your mother.” Mycroft had confirmed that he wouldn't. Nineteen or not he hadn’t wanted his mother to be any harder on him than she already was.] “Family all right?” Rudy asks in the present. 

 

“Mm,” Mycroft mumbles, before he decides to give more of a proper response when Rudy continues to stare at him. “Sherlock’s in one of his moods. Not really talking to me.” His finger reaches across to wipe some of the dust off the edge of the desk. He feels a prickle of unease every time he thinks about his brother. Sherlock and he had used to be close, or _closer_ at any rate, which Mycroft had always taken pleasure from despite the age difference between them-Sherlock’s seven years younger-and part of Mycroft trying to be close to his brother was to ensure that Sherlock wasn’t starting to remember about what had happened with Eurus too. Mycroft feels a greater sense of dissatisfaction thinking about his sister. But ever since Mycroft had first moved away to university and then to come here, to London, he’s felt the distance growing between Sherlock and himself and it’s something that always worries him. He doesn’t want Sherlock going off the rails or remembering something, but that’s exactly what he’s afraid is going to happen. 

 

Rudy gives a bit of a shrug. Mycroft knows that even though he’d asked about family he doesn’t particularly like thinking about the more complicated aspects that, that involves any more than he does. “I’ve heard that you’ve been spending time with a fellow candidate? A woman? That you go jogging with her on most mornings?” he asks. 

 

“Have you spent any more time thinking about what I told you? The fact that we might be heading for war under false grounds and who might be making people aware of it?” Mycroft says quickly. His hands fidget. Rudy gives him one long knowing stare and Mycroft can feel his cheeks betraying him as they change their colour, but manages to hold his gaze nonetheless. He knows that his uncle, having gone through the same process Mycroft is currently going through won’t be fooled by the sudden change in conversation, but hopes that he’ll go along with it despite that.

 

Rudy’s not really willing to take the bait though. “You shouldn't worry about it. It’s under control.” He smiles at him in a rather bracing fashion. 

 

“But have you got any thoughts on who it might be?” Mycroft pushes him. “It would be better if they came out from the shadows wouldn't it? They might have ideas”- Mycroft notices how Rudy is staring at him, all serious, but perhaps with a slight pity for the very idealistic viewpoint that he’s expressing. He decides to quickly change tack. “I’ll be going then.” He jerks his thumb at the door, suddenly wanting to get out of there. He makes his way to the exit in a fast, stumbling fashion. 

 

“One moment, one moment,” Rudy calls after him. Mycroft comes to a reluctant stop. When he looks back it is to see that Rudy’s beckoning him with one finger. Mycroft swallows and goes to re-claim his place by the chair he has no desire to sit on, facing his uncle. “Why is it do you think that you’ve become so attached to the idea of there being someone out there warning against all this? Why do you want to find out who it is so badly? The government would not be happy with whoever it might be, especially if they threaten to get in the way of their plans.” 

 

Mycroft swallows. At the heart of it all he knows that it’s probably because he favours solving problems with words rather than anything that might have dire consequences. If the person trying to get the message out there could be found than perhaps a solution other than war could be established with a discussion. He knows it might be an unrealistic view, but he can’t help but hope for it. That would make you happy he knows. You’re not one for physical violence either, unless it’s for self-defence. He smiles a little wryly at the memory of what you’d done to George now. It would make him happy too, the fact that there’d been another way found after all. Plus it would probably mean more lives being spared. Wouldn't that be the best thing? But when he realizes that he wants this solution more to see your shining, happy face than anything else, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

 

Rudy lays his palms face down upon his desk. “I think you need to be careful Mycroft,” he warns. “You know that I believe that you have untapped potential, but I believe that you’re using this matter of government as a distraction from thinking about something else. _Someone_ else.” Once again now Mycroft’s face feels warm. “You have to know that not everyone would see that though. Some people might think you’re being too nosy if they were to find out that you’ve been asking me about this and that you’re on the verge of interfering. I don’t want anything to hinder the chances of you getting this job.” Mycroft looks at him. Rudy swallows. “It’s not that I have any problem in you being involved in all that either.” Rudy waves a hand and Mycroft knows he’s not talking about work any more even though he knows that what Rudy had said is not strictly true. “But I won’t say that I think it’s a good idea either. You know that I of all people know how dangerous such indulgences can be.” 

 

“Yes Uncle,” Mycroft says diligently. 

 

Rudy looks at him deeply. “I’d just hate for you to get distracted from the promising start you’ve made and end up regretting it,” he tells him. 

 

Mycroft nods and finally he is dismissed. He knows as he leaves his uncle’s office that the idea of him probing about where in the government the leak might be coming from and definitely from being in contact with that person himself has been shot down. It will not be tolerated and nor does his uncle seem to approve of the idea of him being romantically involved with you. With a bit of a heavy sigh he has to agree with him on that point. He’s known from the very beginning after all, from the very first time he’d seen you that he felt something towards you. Something that threatened to disrupt the smooth processes of his mind and his vague attempt to just glide through the best that he could in his career. He’d expected the odd problem yes, but he hadn’t expected _you._ A conundrum so great that he doesn’t want to walk away from because everything you make him feel, a sense of protection, fondness and pleasure, a sense that he wants you to succeed, intrigues him too much and wants to make him see how far he can take this without messing it all up. He doesn’t know if this is what love feels like, but suspects that it’s the closest he’s got to ever feeling it and he knows he’s in too deep to climb back out of the tunnel you make him feel like he’s falling through every time you smile at him or look at him with so much hope and spirit in your eyes. A soft sigh escapes him at the very thought of that expression upon your face and his stomach squirms at the idea that he might have been merely focusing on the threat of war, so that he could avoid thinking about how he feels towards you. That’s true in some respects he acknowledges, he can see that, that threat had become a favourite idea for his mind to think about rather than the uncertainty of you and how you make him feel and whether or not he should try and distance himself from you, but he’s not sure just how much that’s the case. Whether this is love or not though, he has to keep striving to put his potential career first. He can’t mess around here. 

 

*

 

He goes jogging with you as normal. He decides that though it perhaps wouldn't be right for him to have a romantic relationship with you right now, there should be no harm in maintaining a friendship and level of support with you. He has to see you in training after all so there’s no point in trying to avoid you, it just can’t happen. He doesn’t admit that he doesn’t want to stop seeing you whether it’s for the greater good or not. Doesn't admit that it’s hard not to fall further under your spell. Whenever you smile at him when he enters a room or turns up at your door in a way that is hopeful and bashful it makes his heart wriggle inside his chest. When he goes jogging with you on every unusually warm day and he can see your arms, the softness of your s/c skin, which looks even more delicious underneath the amber morning light and he can smell the scent of your shower gel radiating off them, all fruity and intoxicating and he has to spend whole chunks of his days afterwards trying not to daydream about what it might be like to run his fingers across that bare skin of yours, to find a ticklish spot, to smile and feel a thrill at your reaction. A whole evening pacing back and forth trying to banish the view of them, which seem to be clogging up his mind palace. That and your wider body, the rise and fall of your chest, the slight sweat upon your brow, your sparkling eyes. When you miss your mouth with your water bottle one day and you turn your head away from him and he wants to give you a handkerchief, but he doesn’t have one, so instead settles for watching as the trickle of water runs down your neck into the groove of your collarbone only to hum and quickly turn his head away again when you look at him. When you trip over the kerb and he turns around in alarm, not knowing what to do. He goes to help you to your feet in the end, checking you for any signs of damage. But you thank him and wave him off, telling him that you’re fine. You’d just been clumsy. In spite of all your assurances and embarrassment though he manages to get you to jog in front of him, so that if you fall again he’ll be able to be on hand more readily, maybe even be able to prevent you from doing so in the first place. But how the logical side of him quickly regrets that! For then he can see the movement of your body instead of just feeling it behind him like something that he both wants to look around at and doesn’t, see the way that your hair bounces a little as you jog. The way that your clothes cling to you, as if they long to be close, and, he really tries not to look, but in the end he just can’t help himself-your perfect behind. By the point it comes time to turn around he thinks that his face might just be redder than yours and he tries not to look at you for too long because he feels pretty certain that his pupils are dilated and his trousers-thank God they’re dark-are feeling more sweaty and uncomfortable. Well, when all of those things happen they just make him feel even more enamoured with you. Sometimes he wonders what your feelings might be too. There’s always been a slight flirtation, a little crossing of the line between you. From the very moment you’d said that he didn't have much experience and started brushing away his curl there seems to have been something churning between you. There are moments now where he’s sure that he’s not imagining you looking at him differently from all the other candidates. Moments where his lip quirks upwards because you seem to be smiling at what he’s saying and the way that he’s saying it. Moments where he thinks he catches a quick flickering of disappointment rush across your face because you haven’t been put in the same group. Or perhaps he thinks that because it’s what _he_ feels? Sometimes he just doesn’t know and his lack of knowledge in that area and his inability to talk about such things help convince him that he’s not seeing those things coming from you after all. Whatever the case though there are moments where his heart sinks because you agree to go on an outing with the other candidates, before it surges again when you suddenly, and at the last moment, decide that you don’t want to go because you’d rather spend an evening talking and drinking wine with him instead even though you’ve already done that on many a night. Moments where you say something so out of the blue that makes him feel so connected with you that he wonders if it’s the same with you? Do you let out a breath sometimes because you feel the power of him understanding you so strongly that it knocks something out of you? Do you think of him just before you fall asleep? If so how? How do you think of him? With a smile or frustration? Would you rather he’s something that he’s not? Do those feelings slip into dreams? Nightmares like the occasional ones he’s started to have of you where it’s a perfectly ordinary day’s training, before suddenly he sees you in Eurus’s cell and his mission is to get you out, but for some reason, no matter what he does, he just can’t? He has to listen to your screaming pleas and watch your eyes slowly lose hope as you realize that he can’t rescue you. He always wakes breathing heavily and it feels, for a split-second, like the worst thing in the world has happened, before he remembers that you’re fine and not in Sherrinford. Sometimes a few tears even leak out of his eyes, before he manages to settle himself back down again. But he always feels more protective of you the first time he sees you after them, always tries to keep you close by and within sight. If you notice then you don’t say anything about it. Perhaps you just don’t mind. When all these things happen and he sees you reacting to them in such ways it becomes all the more harder to even think of pulling himself away from you, to even think sensibly like he knows that he should. How can he stop his heart falling more for you when it feels sometimes as if it is just you and him against the rest of the world? Is it really so wrong to get distracted by such things as his uncle had suggested? To want you to smile at him in that special way? To feel the quiver of his heart when you brush against him? Isn't that part of life in its most pure of forms? 

 

But away from you it is far simpler to convince himself that it is wrong. That he _should_ stay away from you because that way he can keep the things that he wants to private and not feel like their security is threatened every time he’s with you. There’s also the fact that he’s worried that his mentors will never see him as being fit for the job if he shows himself so easily capable of getting distracted by you. It is easier when you’re apart to tell himself that he should really try and seal his heart off and be more cautious when he’s around you. Not allow his defences to fall so easily. Easier to tell himself that perhaps he should have a word with you and make things clear. If you feel the same as him then he should really do such a thing. But of course all those things are easier thought than done. Of course the moment that he’s around you again he puts what he should do and how he should behave off, the words he’d thought he might say never leaving his mouth as he just ends up enjoying his time with you again. 

 

One day though he reaches his tipping point. He has an out of body moment if you will when he’s talking to you in the briefing room. He senses someone looking and suddenly it hits him that though the both of you have been coy in your feelings-he still hasn’t concluded what yours are, it is becoming an ever expanding essay in his mind-what it must look like to the others. To them it is clear that you must feel that way about each other even if you are not officially dating. He knows that he must speak to you. 

 

That night, on your settee in your flat, he says, “We can’t be together you know?” You look at him. He quickly backtracks. “I mean I'm not saying that you want things to progress in that way, but if you do then you must know that they can’t. Not at all. Never.” Even as he tries to stop it from doing so a blush heats up his face. 

 

You swallow and look away from him. This is the conversation that you’d started to guess would be coming soon and dreaded having with him. Not only because you’d know that it would hurt but because you can’t even be angry with him for making you feel that pain. You’re so similar. All he wants to do is get this job just like you do. “I know,” you say evenly, looking back at him now. 

 

“Do you?” Mycroft checks, wanting to make sure and finding that his eyes go to your lips without being able to help themselves. He’s not quite sure what to make of what you’ve just said. All he knows is that he feels an unyielding coil of breathlessness suddenly tightening itself in him and he’s not even sure if it’s what he wants any more, so to hear that it might be what _you_ do makes him feel like he’s helplessly falling through that tunnel again. Only now, instead of exhilaration he can see the hard floor and knows that he’s going to crash straight into it. 

 

“Yes,” you say, turning towards him more ever so slightly. For once his feelings are open to you and now, feeling secure in them, your eyes go to his lips. “Career over everything for the both of us,” you say as your hand goes to just beneath his shoulder. It’s almost like you might be about to push him away despite the fact that you’d been the one to move closer to him. His hand goes to your waist, steadying you somewhat and yours grow firmer upon him, fisting the material of his light blue shirt together. Your eyes are on each other steadily, both of you wanting this, this thing that neither of your words are expressing, but neither of you desiring to be the first to break. You relent in the end, letting out a little breath and then tugging him towards you, whilst your eyes watch him carefully all the while. He releases a little breath, before he nudges at your nose with his as his lips come to rest over yours. Your eyes seem to roll into the back of your head, before they shut. Mycroft’s own flutter closed as he makes a noise of approval. You let out a little sound, your hand curling around the back of his neck just at the same time his go to your back, growing firm. You part momentarily, both letting out a sharp breath, your e/c eyes locking with his, before you move back in again. Your body knocks against his more this time and his hands cup around your waist. His heart does little jumps of excitement in his chest. You finally pull back, eliciting a little growl from him, which he looks quickly embarrassed about. You take his hands as he ducks his head, getting him to look at you. 

 

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” you murmur, making soft, soothing strokes against him. “Or”-something in your face wavers-“Do that ever again if you don’t want to.”

 

“You’re beautiful,” he says to try and get rid of that thought. That had been his first kiss and he feels dazed by it. He’d never known…never known that such a slight touch from another person could make him feel such pleasure. Shy he looks down again. 

 

You tilt his chin up gratefully and kiss him. Something earnest forms in his eyes. His heart pledges its love to you in that moment. “You are too. Handsome I mean.” Your heart does a sudden surge in your chest, and, blushing like crazy you look down. 

 

“No one’s ever called me that,” Mycroft says, his lip twitching into a smile. Once more he feels blessed by everything that you’re giving him. 

 

“Not even your mother?” you ask him with a smile of your own. 

 

“No,” he says more firmly, before he instantly regrets it when your face takes on a startled expression. He goes on to add in a less harsh and more sombre manner, “My mother’s always been hard on me, not only because I'm the eldest and she thinks that I should know better, but because I fear that she suspects I'm hiding something.” 

 

“Is she right?” you ask, the words coming out from some place deep. Your face falls though and you realize that you might have upset him as you watch him slide to the edge of the settee and stand. He takes a couple of steps away, bowing his head. _“Mycroft,”_ you say, not knowing how you can, but wanting to make him feel better. 

 

He turns his head to you for a moment, before he looks away again. His mind falls into profound thought. How can he possibly explain to you about everything that he now feels like he should? About how his sister has spent the majority of her life in an institution? About how his uncle has struggled to find a balance between who he is and doing his job? _Should_ he even explain to you about those things? His parents and Sherlock don’t even know the truth about Eurus after all. But this is different he reasons. All the higher-ups in the job he might possibly be getting already know and there’s every chance that the pair of you will end up working together. Even if you didn't then he can’t imagine ever wanting to let go of you. Not now that he knows you feel the same. 

 

“You know,” you say, and he suddenly realizes that you’re by him, your hand making to hold his as you stand by his side, “There was this one incident I had as a teenager.” He looks at you, always keen to find out more about you, to see if it’s something else he can use to justify this as not being a distraction, but something meaningful because you understand him. “It was someone’s birthday. I can’t remember whose now. A relative and I went with my parents to their house. I wasn’t really looking forward to going because I didn't really know them all that well and that was the point where I was starting to feel even more awkward about myself, like I didn't fit in. Anyway we went there and my Nan was with me and we were talking to someone who hadn’t seen me for years. They mentioned how much I look like my father and I remember feeling so irrationally angry about it, even though it’s stupid now, because at the time they were acting like just because I look like him I am him in every way and I'm not. He and Mum have always been very musical and I'm not. I’ve always felt like I didn't quite fit in with them because of that.” 

 

Mycroft smiles suddenly. “That’s another thing we have in common,” he says. 

 

“Yeah?” you sound encouraging. 

 

He nods, turning towards you a bit more. “Yes, my-my sister’s always been musical. She taught my brother to play the violin. I'm hopeless. I can’t even play the piano.” 

 

You knock your shoulder against him. You know that he’s not hopeless. “You have a sister and brother?” You wonder what they look like now, what they’re called.

 

“Yes.” He nods again. “I'm the oldest, but they’re…Eurus and Sherlock.” 

 

“More made up sounding names. Sometimes I wonder if you come from a whole family of spies Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft’s smile grows a little, before it fades again. You rub at his hand. “I'm not saying that I understand completely how you feel towards your family. _You’re_ the one who knows them after all. But I'm just saying that if you feel awkward because of how you feel towards them then you shouldn't. It’s like I’ve just said, I don’t feel like I fit in with mine.”

 

“It’s not that I don’t feel like I fit in,” Mycroft says suddenly.

 

 _“Oh.”_ You let go of him. 

 

He turns to you, chewing on his lip and feeling annoyed with himself for inadvertently pushing you away. You’d only been trying to be kind to him. “It’s”- he looks away. 

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” He looks back at you. He wants to. He thinks he can trust you as far as everything he’s got to say is concerned. After all you’ve shared moments that have put you in a vulnerable position. He doesn’t think that you’d use it for personal gain or share it with anybody. He supposes if he’s really honest with himself then he’s more concerned with what it will make you think of him and where he’s come from. He swallows again. Your hand is back on his and you give it a little squeeze. “Why don’t we sit down?” You suggest. 

 

He tells you everything. About Eurus’s erratic behaviour as a child and reluctantly how Sherlock’s best friend Victor Trevor had disappeared and how his family think that Eurus had known something or been responsible for it in some way. He cautiously admits to being fearful about the fact that she might even have killed him. _Accidentally_ of course, he stresses, but you can tell the worry that he has about it being otherwise. He admits that she’d been confined. Your eyes grow wide at everything, your lips sorrowful, but somehow he still finds you by him. You do not get up, ask him to leave. If anything you seem to clutch onto him a little tighter. He tells you about his cross-dressing uncle who had seen something in him and decided to help him into this career. “But I'm not here just because of him,” Mycroft tells you, “He’s just helped point me in the right direction. Given me advice.”

 

“I know,” you say, squeezing at his hand again. You trust that, that’s the truth in that moment. 

 

Mycroft feels relieved, so relieved in fact that he feels safe enough to suddenly blurt out, “My parents and Sherlock think Eurus is dead.” You stare at him. Mycroft opens his mouth and then closes it again. He feels guilty for telling you such a thing, but oddly like part of the burden is starting to lift from him too. He’s never been able to discuss this with anyone aside from Rudy before and he’s even started to think that to do so with him is more of an inconvenience these days. Rudy clearly wants to put the whole thing behind him as much as possible and would like for Mycroft to do the same. “I thought that it was for the best,” he says when he can finally get his mouth functioning again. “The whole thing with not knowing what happened to his best friend was so traumatic for Sherlock that he blotted it out. I thought it would be better if, in the long run and considering what Eurus might be responsible for, that my parents thought she were dead rather than having to deal with her again.” 

 

“Oh Mycroft.” You take him in your arms. 

 

He relaxes a little at your touch, but still he can’t help but worry and his cheek has no more brushed against yours before he’s pulling away from you again. “You’re not going to judge? Be angry with me?” 

 

You shake your head, touching at his cheek with your hand. “Of course not. It’s horrible what you’ve been through. Truly dreadful having to hide all that. Far worse than anything I’ve ever been through.” You look rueful, before you add as an afterthought because your mind is still spinning with it all, “Thanks for telling me.”

 

He nods. “I know I don’t really need to ask you, but”-

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” you promise. 

 

*

 

Once he leaves you spend a long time thinking about what he’d told you. You think about how difficult it must have been for Rudy to have to try and hide who he really is just to maintain his job. Think about the strain that everything with Eurus must have put on the whole family and about Mycroft himself. How glad you are that he’d felt like he could tell you!

 

You can’t sleep what with it all going around in your head and eventually you get up, pull out your sketchbook and start to draw vaguely as you sit down by the circular table. The lines come to form Mycroft’s face like you’re joining the stars of the sky in a constellation. You’d once read a cheesy greetings card that said: _A face without freckles is like a sky without stars,_ and that’s what it feels like with him. Like every little part of him is so important that without any of them he wouldn't be him. You get so engrossed with it all once you get going that you pull out some chalk and use the effect of rubbing it in to add some colour to the piece. 

 

* 

 

You wake up with a start. Once more there is someone knocking on your door. You let out a little curse when you realize that you’d fallen asleep on your sketchbook. Thankfully you haven’t ruined the piece that you’d been working on, though you feel sure that you have some of the yellow chalk smudged onto your face. You do a quick swipe with your sleeve, hoping that will get it off. You hurriedly close your sketchbook shut and rush to the door. 

 

It’s Mycroft. He smiles a little tiredly when he sees you as if he hasn’t had the best night’s sleep either, but then his face changes to wear an expression of the utmost concern and he peers at you more closely. You blink and swallow, your mouth tumbling open and your head moving instinctively further back as his gets closer to you. “Are you all right?” He tilts his head. “You look a little”-

 

“Oh God.” You swipe at your face again. This time you get crumbling flakes of yellow chalk coming off onto your sleeve. “It’s the chalk.”

 

_“Chalk?”_

 

“Yeah.” You look at him more now. Your face feels suddenly warm. “I um, I did some drawing last night after you left.” You don’t mention that you’d gotten precious little sleep because of what he’d told you though he can probably tell with that thing of his. 

 

Suddenly he’s dampening his thumb with spit and rubbing it carefully across your cheek. You curse yourself when you blush, feeling sure that he must be able to feel the heat of you with the pad of his thumb, but he hardly seems to realize what he’s doing. “I didn't know that you drew?” he says, letting go of you now and once more sounding intrigued to hear about this thing that you’ve been keeping from him. 

 

“Um yeah, sometimes, now and again.” _Most weekends._ You touch at your hair, before you curse suddenly when you realize that you’re getting yellow chalk on it. “Sorry.” 

 

“Can I see?” Mycroft asks, looking over your shoulder. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The drawing that you did last night?” Mycroft looks back at you. 

 

“Um…er, maybe some time.” You have a mental image of yourself now ripping out the drawing you’d done last night and showing him a safer one that you don’t consider to be too dreadful instead. You might be dating now-are you dating?-but you don’t want him to ever know that you’d done something so cheesy as to draw him. Maybe if you were married or something _-shit!_ Now you’ve got an image of walking down the aisle and seeing Mycroft at the end of it. It’s way too soon for that! You blink yourself rapidly out of thought only to find that Mycroft’s now gone around you and is currently pulling your sketchbook off the table with those slender fingers of his. 

 

 _“Wait,”_ you say just as he tilts it open to the correct page. But it’s too late. He lets out a little breath now and puts the sketchbook back on the table so that he can look at your drawing properly. You can’t know as you join him how astonished he feels by your pencil outline of him, the way that you’ve delicately added in the details of his face and by how the only bits of colour you’ve put in the piece are the blue of his eyes and a yellow background, making it look like he’s being bathed in a hue of light. “It’s not finished or anything,” you say, trying to excuse it now because you haven’t properly calculated what it looks like yet. Mycroft turns towards you now and there’s something odd about his eyes, something that makes your throat feel suddenly tight with a sweeping emotion and your fingers feel suddenly clumsy. “I-er”-

 

“Is this how you see me even after last night?” he asks, and his voice sounds rough, breathless. 

 

“Er”- you look down at the drawing. You feel something fluttering inside you at just knowing that it represents someone who means so much to you. You look at the way that you’ve done his hair. It’s slightly thrown back as if it was breezy outside. That by now infamous curl hangs down. His eyes shine with their soft colour. His lips half twist into a smile as you’ve seen them do so many times before as he half turns his head to look back at something: _You._ You’ve just drawn the faint outline of his shirt and collar. The light behind him represents the way that he makes you feel, warm, happy, not only that but the way you see him: a force of good. “Yeah.” 

 

His lips are on yours before you’ve barely got the word out, his hand cupping gently at your jaw. Feeling happy you emit a little breath and kiss him back. 

 

Neither of you go jogging that morning. You just while away the time at your flat. You eat a breakfast of toast and orange juice together, smile at your drawing, which remains open to watch you both and tangle your hands across the table. It feels good. 

 

In fact a lot of things about that time feel good. From the way that Mycroft’s hand goes to your waist more often now when you take your breaks from jogging, almost doing so as soon as you stop, the way that quite often you share a pleasant kiss before you make your way back, the way that you get to plan nights out together as much as discuss your training and anything else. But it can’t last, and when the candidates have become five and Mycroft and you are invited to a ball together where a lot of people from the civil service will be attending, everything changes once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of what the greetings card said in this chapter is perfectly true. I really have seen a card with that on it.


	6. Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself facing a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but with good reason I promise you!

It’s December and a day, which had started out with a hard frost has now descended into a crisp evening.

 

Mycroft and you enter the ballroom with its patterned floor that shows a shield and banners and emblems of everything that is good and powerful, whilst cherubs chuckle behind their clouds on the painted ceiling. You’re by no means the first ones there and the pair of you enter with a shy sort of confidence about you. Everyone knows that you’re together now. Even though you’d both decided not to flaunt it and not keep it hidden either the long stares that Mycroft had kept giving you whose intensity only seemed to increase when you’d smiled at him in a bashful fashion, before he’d look away with a bit of a smirk upon his face had kind of given it away. As had the way that he’d, when you’d been on an exercise and had to meet Marie in a children’s playground by a red slide, making the decision of whether to call off said meeting or not based on whether you thought that someone was following you, ended up tailing you a bit too openly. In the debrief he’d had with Marie afterwards she’d seemed amused, telling him off in jest for being one of those people who get distracted by pretty things. He’d felt like she was comparing him to a magpie. She’d advised him that whilst she found the relationship the two of you have going sweet, for both of your sakes you should try and focus when you’re on the job. She’d once again made a joke when she’d said that she knows how hard that can be. Mycroft had blushed at that. He’d got it in the neck from Rudy too when he’d heard. Too embarrassed and annoyed with himself he hadn’t spoken to you properly for a week until you’d finally prised the fact of what he’d been bashful about out of him and that his uncle disapproves of your relationship. You’d decided to try and not take the latter point too personally and just think of Rudy as being a bit too overprotective of his nephew just like Mycroft feels so strongly about him. Mycroft and you had both decided to be a bit more careful after that though. It was all right to revel a bit in your relationship, but like Marie had said neither of you want it to affect the chances of one of you getting the job. You’ve become a sort of golden couple in the group though in spite of all this, with the positive things that you do seemingly outweighing any mistakes you make and you sense a sort of tense vibe coming from the others as if they both respect the power of you together and fear it, hence the sort of shy confidence that Mycroft and you walk in with that night. Mycroft’s in a tux and you like the look of him in it very much, whilst you’re in a f/c dress, which brushes teasingly against your ankles. Similarly you like the effect that your dress has had on Mycroft. When he’d come to pick you up he’d looked you up and down so slowly and calculatingly that you’d almost started to feel dizzy from holding your breath so much. Then he’d nodded and made a sound of approval, which had come deep from his throat and which you’d liked a lot, before he’d kissed you on your hand, called you beautiful and led the way. He’s stayed close to you ever since, making light touches to your waist and drawing his head down a lot of the time when he talks to you as if you’re sharing in some great secret together. 

 

Now, as you let out a little nervous breath as you take in the vast expanse of everyone, all these middle-aged people filling up this space who seem to know exactly where they are in life and where they’re going Mycroft’s hand finds your waist again, cupping at it reassuringly. You peer up at him. He’s looking around too, brow furrowed, eyes serious, digesting the scene of champagne, canapés and tinkling laughter as soft classical music plays on in the background. As one you move forwards. Mycroft, growing more confident now, takes your hand. You catch sight of Nate-still in the process-and nod him out to Mycroft. The pair of you begin to make your way over to him, but get intercepted by Richard who seems keen to introduce you to a graying middle-aged man who has intense grey-green eyes and several frown lines. 

 

“James, these are our very promising trainees Mycroft and F/N. Mycroft and F/N, James works very closely with the Head of Security. He’s very important in everything that we do.”

 

James eyes you both intently now as if he’s deciding which one of you to feed to the sharks first. 

 

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you sir,” you say politely, offering him your hand even though he’s giving you the creeps. James takes it and gives it one firm shake, before he lets go of it again. Mycroft shifts his position beside you, before he shakes the man’s hand too. 

 

“Enjoying your training?” James’s eyes are fixed on you. 

 

You open your mouth, but Mycroft’s foot discreetly taps against yours. “Yes sir,” he replies for you both. 

 

James’s eyes go to him now. “Good.” He casts the pair of you one last look, before he goes on his way again. Richard sends you a look of apology and hurries after him. 

 

“What was that about?” You look up at Mycroft. “Why wouldn't you let me answer?”

 

He speaks in a low tone now, looking across at the wall rather than at you. “My uncle’s warned me about him. If he asks you to go anywhere with him at the end of the evening or even before that then don’t.” His hand finds yours again. 

 

“Why not?” you ask him, but when Mycroft doesn’t reply you demand, _“Mycroft?”_

 

“Just don’t,” he says with a bit of an edge to his tone. He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses it. 

 

Deciding not to push the issue you begin to lead him over to the champagne, before you come to a sudden stop. You look back at him now. His eyes find yours in concern. “If he does things with women”-you keep your voice low and lean towards him-“Then why has your uncle warned _you_ about him?” 

 

“Because it’s not just women,” Mycroft says through gritted teeth. “He likes to test out new candidates, break them in. He’s not fussy about gender. If they meet his seal of approval by doing what he wants and don’t rat on him then most of the time they get through.”

 

“So by us not”-

 

“You’re not doing that,” Mycroft growls. 

 

_“You-?”_

 

“Don’t worry about me.”

 

“But I do,” you say. You turn to him properly now, placing a hand upon his chest. 

 

He looks at you. His eyes tell you that he both wishes that you didn't care for him and that he’s glad that you do. He steps a little closer. His trousers tickle against the hem of your dress. “Just remember that we’re right in the heart of the hornet’s nest tonight. We need to be on guard.” 

 

You look at him. His other hand finds yours. You nod and make to move towards the champagne again, but you’ve hardly gone much further when you hear Mycroft let out an exclamation. You whirl around to him. _“What-?”_

 

But he’s not looking at you. His eyes are staring across at a man and woman who have just entered. The man is Asian with thinning dark hair, brown eyes and thickset eyebrows. The woman, who you assume must be his wife is thin and willowy with long hair. Finally Mycroft looks back at you, before he glances around surreptitiously. “That man,” he says, his eyes on you once more, “Has, according to my uncle, a very prominent position, though I don’t know what it is.” 

 

He looks back at the man with an intensity that gets you smiling. “Want to introduce yourself?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft looks at you in horror. “Gracious no. I couldn't. I'm just a trainee”-

 

“Come on.” You take his arm, but he digs his heels in. 

 

“No, F/N please, it wouldn't be professional of me.”

 

“All right,” you relent, knowing that you stand to fall out if you continue to push the issue. You let go of him and make your way over to the champagne instead 

 

*

 

It’s a little later. Mycroft and you have limited yourselves to one glass of champagne and nearly burnt your tongues on one of the spicier canapés. You’ve even braved the dance floor and have now just come to the end of a slightly awkward slow dance where he’d stepped on your toes as much as you’d trod on his. Neither of you had really been concentrating on it. You’re both too alert with what’s going on around you. 

 

You step back and let go of him. “I’ll just go and freshen up,” you say. 

 

“All right.” He looks at you seriously, but you think that he’s going to let you go with nothing more than that. “Be careful,” he blurts out suddenly. You look at him and for a moment you see a flash of something. How much you mean to him. It touches you. 

 

You step in front of him again, your hands tangling with his as you peck at his lips. “I will,” you say. He nods, but you can tell he feels apprehensive about you leaving him, so you stroke at his cheek, before you do so. 

 

You feel nervous yourself as you leave the hustle and bustle of the room. You’d got so accustomed to it that you hadn’t even realized just how busy and loud it was compared to the quiet of everywhere else in the grand stately house. You move upstairs, away from the entrance hall and down the closest hallway, hoping to find a bathroom there. You haven’t gone far when you hear voices coming from a room. You hesitate, wondering whether to go past or step closer and listen.


	7. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A re-union is made under difficult circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support. :) 
> 
> Have a good Easter everyone. :)

**February 15th 2003**

 

You sit in your chambers. You’re a judge now who works in London. Outside in the capital, and all across the world in fact, protesters are marching against the upcoming war that the UK will be joining America in against Iraq. You can almost see the crowds and hear the thrumming chants in your mind. Observe the white placards that are full of red paint to represent blood, the words that have been made to drip down deliberately. With a racing heart you see the accusations that proclaim that the country is going to war on false grounds. You let out a shuddery breath and open your eyes again without even realizing that you’d closed them. You pull the next case towards you. It’s ridiculous really, you’d been the one complaining that you hadn’t had the case file on time and now you’re delaying, your mind getting lost in what’s going on elsewhere. But suddenly you’re brought straight into the present again because you see the name of the defendant. 

 

 _Sherlock Holmes._ Your heart gives a jolt. 

 

His supposed crimes? Murder and possession of a Class A substance. 

 

 _Murder._ He’s entered a _‘Not Guilty,’_ plea, but…You remember the conversation from years ago first.

 

_“You have a sister and brother?”_

 

_“Yes. I'm the oldest, but they’re…Eurus and Sherlock.”_

 

Can it really be the same one? Mycroft’s younger brother? But then how many people are called Sherlock with that surname and everything? You swallow. Then your mind goes back to the matter of the most urgency. _Murder._ Drugs is one thing, but _murder._ How on earth could you have missed this? You look back down at the case file. How had you not seen that Mycroft’s sibling, Sherlock, was up for murder in a TV news report or a newspaper or anything? Your mind stops as soon as you hear any one say the word ‘Holmes,’ your heart skips a beat, so how on earth had all your senses managed to block out _this?_ You do a quick scan of the case now, trying to ignore the way that your mind is berating you for not having heard about this sooner. On the night of May 2nd 2002 there had been a call out by some members of the public who had heard what sounded like a heated argument by two men in an alleyway close to a family pub. That had been at roughly quarter-past eight. The police hadn’t got there until twenty-past nine. Expecting the argument to be long since dissipated they’d just been doing a quick scan of the area in their patrol car. That’s when the slumped figures of two men had been seen in that same alleyway. One of the men was dead, the other unconscious. The deceased was Trent Baker, a man known to the police for crimes such as petty theft and drug dealing. Far too thin with wild, scraggly brown hair and green-blue eyes Trent had been a pale man. The blue of his veins had bulged out against skin that had been misused many times through the drug habit that had started when he’d been nineteen. At his death Trent had been a mere twenty-six. The unconscious man who had been high and a poor representative of what had happened leading up to Trent’s death had of course been Sherlock Holmes. He’d been arrested and charged, whilst he’d still been recovering at hospital. 

 

The case had gone to the Magistrates Court first, before being transferred to Crown because of its seriousness. Then there had been a delay due to evidence being mixed up in the forensics lab and the side of the prosecution had requested an extension in order to compile their evidence because of that first delay and then, for some reason the case file has only been made available to you now, on the morning of the trial. You hadn’t been idle in trying to obtain it either. You’d had a good rant down the phone, saying that you’d be the one asking for an extension at this rate and that it was ridiculous for a judge covering a murder trial to know nothing more about the case than the code name it had been given: _SH v TB._ You suppose now that something inside you should have been triggered about Sherlock’s possible involvement then, but it hadn’t been. It’s not like you’d ever met the man before after all. You’d just been pushing because you’d wanted to be able to review the case. You like to be prepared. Like to know what the prosecution and defence might try and get past you, but now you are woefully ill-equipped. Now because of Sherlock’s involvement you have been caught off guard and made speechless. Now your mind goes to the second most troubling problem, which is that of Mycroft, and as well as thinking that he must be under a lot of stress from this you wonder if he’ll be out there in the public gallery supporting his brother. You think that he probably will be. His family had seemed important to him after all when you’d known him and you can’t imagine that, that would have changed all that much. You don’t know how to feel about the possibility of seeing him again. Your fingers fidget against the paper. On the one hand there is something exciting about it, but on the other hand it is terrifying. A shiver runs down your spine and your smart black and white clothes jostle. Thankfully you are alone in your chambers and there is no one there to see you reacting in such a fashion. You look down. Your eyes run across the name and the charges once more. _Murder._ You shouldn't be making all this about you and what had happened in the past. This is a case like any other and you cannot bring all that baggage with you. Still, you wonder now what Sherlock will look like and also wonder what Mycroft will look like, wonder how the years will have changed him. Will he remember you? You quickly chide yourself and chase that thought out of your head. You shouldn't very well be starting to picture any scenes of happy re-union with him, in fact, even if that is, for some reason what he should want after how badly you’ve treated him, you mustn't let that happen you think. Besides, his brother’s up for murder, you’re hardly going to be his number one priority right now and that’s exactly the way that it should be. But, as you scan over the case quickly once more and digest things better you wonder again why you hadn’t heard about this matter previously. The fact that it hadn’t been on any television news reports or in any newspapers almost gives it an air of being hushed up, as does the code name and the fact that it hadn’t been revealed to you until so late, whilst the mistake with the forensics smacks of a bungled police investigation. You begin to wonder if there could be something going on at a deeper level beneath all this. Could MI6 have anything to do with it? You shake your head. That’s probably just your old feelings of paranoia and mistrust seeping back through again. Not everything is to do with them. Someone comes to collect you then and so you begin to make the final adjustments that are needed, before you can go into court. 

 

* 

 

You step into the court in full wig and gown, carrying Sherlock’s case file with you. The hem of the gown swishes about your ankles as you stride in, taking your place where the judge sits. More papers have been laid out for you there. You lay the ones that you have down and check that you have everything that you need, trying to do so without looking up. Your heart pounds. You know that Sherlock should be directly opposite you and you hadn’t been informed of a change or a problem, so he should definitely be there. But you’re anxious about seeing Mycroft in the courtroom, anxious about starting off whatever this is. MI6 involvement or not, you know when something’s off. Your throat goes dry and finally you look up at everyone who’s just sat down again from when they’d scrabbled to their feet upon your entrance in a sign of respect. The sound of people doing so had unnerved you once, made a prickle of tension lodge inside your spine. No doubt the Russian memories, which had been thick and heavy as an avalanche then hadn’t helped. But now, though your time in Russia still lingers in your mind of course, popping up every now and again to make you think and bleed in equal measure you pay next to no attention to the noise. Instead of reminding you of your clothes as they’d rustled, whilst you’d gone from one car to the next, hiding behind them in that dreadful concrete tower, whilst people hissed and exclaimed in thick Russian accents and weapons were readied, it has become normal, commonplace to you and you’ve stopped feeling that strange sensation at people rising to their feet for you too. Your eyes go to Sherlock first, determined to delay the moment when you will discover what Mycroft looks like. Sherlock’s frame does not seem to be adequately supporting his body, which slumps downwards like a piece of clothing that hasn’t been hung out right. His hair is a mass of black curls and his blue eyes-more vague in their colour than Mycroft’s-hardly meet yours, before they look down again. They are lost. His fingers grip onto the wood that helps secure him and keep him back from everyone else, as if there is nothing else to hang onto. You feel a sense of pain for him. You hate cases with the young and Mycroft’s brother is definitely that. But more than anything you hate cases where you can feel a sense of uncertainty radiating from the defendant. When they’re not cocksure, but more like, ‘What am I doing here?’ You’ve had that feeling more than once since you lost your job and accepted this one. When you’d first seen the letter that had offered it one of the first things that had occurred to you was that you didn't have enough experience-usually people worked in a legal role for five to seven years, before it was deemed that they might be suitable for a judging position. But then you’d remembered of course that your ex-employees were in a position to make such unlikely things happen and pull it off without it being questioned, or at the very least silence anyone who _did_ want answers. In the present you feel a burning anger. How you wish that you hadn’t been silenced yourself. There had been too much at stake though. Something tumbles inside you at this realization and your hopeless position, not for the first time. You tear your eyes away from Sherlock now, not bearing to be able to look at the broken and pathetic excuse for a man in front of you any longer. You let them sweep across to the public gallery. Your eyes catch against a blonde haired woman and a brown haired man with a moustache that are clinging to each other. You think that they must be Trent’s parents. The prosecution would have encouraged their presence here even if they’d wanted to stay away and not take the risk of being judged themselves. A couple of rows down are a younger man and woman, Goths you think by their dark, edgy clothing, the eye-liner, dyed black hair and multiple facial piercings. Friends of Trent? But perhaps people who had been more genuinely his friends than the people he’d rubbed up against through his drug deals. They too look a little upset to be here. But it’s the person who’s sitting in the middle of the row between those two groups who nearly makes you lose your composure. Whose pale blue eyes make you feel like the defences of your very soul have just been breached. Mycroft’s auburn hair is slightly thinner now. You suspect that the curl couldn't hang down even if it still exists. Thinking that’s enough observation for the moment you force your gaze down again, back to the papers. For a moment you take a deep breath and close your eyes to steady yourself. Your eyelashes brush against your skin and for a moment you’re taken right back to those difficult days after everything had first happened when Mycroft would text you, asking you if you were all right, asking if James had done anything to you at the party, saying that he would be there for you, you could talk to him. And then _please_ could you talk to him? As usual in the present your chest feels tight at such memories. It had been so hard to ignore him. To push his kindness away and return your phone to your pocket each time. But that had been the only way. You remember those long, weary nights of studying the latest amendments in the law in the low, amber light and resting your head on whatever was behind you, usually the settee, as you’d thought about Mycroft. You’d wondered what he was doing, where he was and more importantly what he thought of you. Did he ever think of you or had he forgotten you now? A sigh would build up inside your throat at that and slowly you’d release it, cursing yourself for learning the information that you had in the first place. If you hadn’t then you’d known that your life would be very different. You’d have the job that you’d ultimately wanted, and in fact, as things had stood you’d probably have a good and interesting life with Mycroft too. If only what had happened hadn’t you think. 

 

You swallow as your eyes open. You go on to confirm Sherlock’s name and address. You can feel Mycroft’s eyes staring at you, but resist the temptation to look back at him. To check that his appearance in your court had not been a hallucination just now. To study and properly take him in. Instead you focus on Sherlock, but more than that on the reassuring processes of the court: the swearing in of the jury, the opening statement by the prosecution, the grandness of it all with you at its helm. It is your job to steer and interrupt and keep everyone on course, which you are damned sure that you are not going to let Mycroft Holmes throw you off now, no matter how much a small part of you is secretly glad to see him. The fact that he’s here now and looking at you so means that he knows whom you are and that he hasn’t forgotten you after all. He wants answers, but you mustn't give them to the man who has blown in here like some easterly wind to remind you of your past. You must never give them to him of all people. But like a ship that has hit an iceberg the order of everything in your life is sinking fast. 

 

As if to show that you’re not going to be able to stop things from happening, which you’d rather not, as soon as the opening statement by the prosecution has concluded no time is wasted in taking great delight in showing off the photo evidence of the damage done to Baker’s body before his death. You, not having had a chance to see such images before now, take less pleasure from the experience and some members of the jury and the public also seem to be finding it a grisly ordeal, especially Trent’s mother who leaves the court once, before coming back in again. Your eyes go to Mycroft. His face pale his gaze is for once not fixed on you, who he seems to be finding it preferable to look at rather than his brother, but on one of the two screens either side of you that shows the latest image from the file. This one displays a needle sticking out of Baker’s forearm. The sleeve of his navy hoodie seems to have been pulled up clumsily. The barrister for the prosecution-Elsa Clark-with her short ginger bob underneath her white wig who seems to hate you and despise how quickly you’d been given the position of judge had drawn particular attention to the criss cross marks on the victim’s arm. She wants to paint both Baker and Sherlock as drug addicts you know. Two people in dire need of a fix. Only the difference was that Baker had drugs at that time and Sherlock did not. Nor did he have the money to pay for them. That night, unable to hold off any more, Sherlock had set out to find Baker with the full intention, Elsa had said in her opening statement, of doing whatever it took to get drugs. Her view is that whatever it took included murder. 

 

“Perhaps we would find similar marks on the defendant’s arm if we were to look?” Elsa says now and your face takes on a look of irritation. You can feel Mycroft’s eyes sliding to you, perhaps wanting to see how much he can trust you with his brother. The defence barrister-Thomas Chandler-a chubby man in his forties who always seems to wear a shirt that is too tight for him-you’re seriously worried that the buttons are going to ping off it one day-and has glasses with thick brown and white frames and a stubbly brown beard, also sends an exasperated look your way. Standing up he gestures widely with his hands. 

 

“If we could stick to the facts Miss. Clark and not on mere speculation?” Your gaze goes back to Elsa. 

 

“Yes ma’am,” she says primly, practically doing a sarcastic curtsey your way. 

 

You raise an eyebrow. It would not be considered general protocol for a judge to personally reprimand a barrister, no matter how tempting it might sometimes be, but you feel like Elsa Clark has just crossed a line here and you’re in the mood to show Mycroft that he cannot just come back into your life and expect to have any answers that he might be seeking. “Less of the attitude too Miss. Clark or you might just find that I am not so willing to listen to your case,” you say. Your words cause a ripple around the courtroom and you send a little glare in the direction of the public gallery, hoping that might shut them up. It does to a point, but when your eyes happen to fix upon Mycroft who seems to be taking some amusement from the situation despite the dire predicament that his brother’s in if the way that his lip twitches upward as he looks at you is anything to go by, you say, “Silence in court please,” your eyes burning into his. Instead of having the effect that you desire though his gaze remains fixed on yours and he looks even more entertained. Letting out a little indignant breath and deeming him a lost cause, at least for the present, you look back to Elsa. No doubt you’ll get the chance to deal with Mycroft later. It’s a thought that both excites you and fills you with trepidation. 

 

“Yes ma’am,” Elsa simpers. “If we could all now turn to exhibit 2ba?” The next slide comes on the screen and there is much rustling as everyone turns through their folders. You flip through yours and let out a little breath. This one shows the victim’s throat, red and inflamed after strangulation. Your eyes glimpse Mycroft’s face growing whiter and you begin to feel a mounting pressure that you had hoped never to feel again inside you. _The rising need to help him._ “I put it to you,” Elsa looks at the jury now, “That so enraged and insufficiently able to inject the victim with enough of a dose to send the victim incapable, the defendant cruelly, and with great intent, put his hands around the victim’s throat and killed him, for no other reason than to get his next fix.” You feel a sigh building up inside you. “My client was killed for drugs that have little value. Ten pounds. That was what it cost. For the same price that a person pays for a few groceries from their local shop a man was killed.” The sigh escapes you. Elsa looks at Sherlock now, as if demanding answers from him. His eyes glitter as he stares back at her. Inside you know that along with all the hollow numbness that he must be feeling he must be terrified, but in that moment he looks insolent and you suddenly wish that he could portray himself to the jury in a much better fashion. It’s stupid you know, you don’t even know the man and your profession is not meant to be about taking sides, that’s for others, like Elsa to do, _but…_ you look back at Mycroft. The entirety of his face is locked now and he bows his head as soon as he notices that you’ve got your eyes on him. He can’t bear to look at you, can’t bear to perhaps read you and see what you’re thinking in that moment and you feel that stupid pull to try and help him again if you can because you know that face. It’s the same look of fear that he’d had right before he’d told you about Eurus. That same worry about what you’d think. You swallow. How you’d love to reprimand Elsa and make things a little better, but you can’t. Not like you had before. She’d just been doing her job in that moment, putting her story across. Although her comparison with the groceries had shown her flair for drama you can’t deny that it had been a good example and that it hadn’t overstepped in the way that she had before. The trial continues. 

 

*

 

Even though it’s a relief to be able to adjourn for lunch, to get away from the photos and from Mycroft’s eyes, which every time they go to you threaten to puncture you with their thousand-yard stare, you know too that the time where you’ll have to speak to Mycroft again is both inevitable and close now. It’s just a matter of when. Trying to delay it a little and give yourself more time to think however you send someone out to get you lunch, so that you don’t have to venture outside. You put your laptop on, more out of habit than anything else, and send a couple of emails, whilst your hand picks at crisps and your mouth nibbles half-heartedly on your salad sandwich. You should have brought that leftover pasta from last night you think absent-mindedly. That would have been more satisfying. But you know too that nothing would have tasted that good when your mind is so full of thought right now, about the case, about Mycroft and how you can keep what you know from him.

 

As if he’s taunting you and telling you that you cannot escape him or your past the very man enters your chambers quickly as if they are his just after the moment when you’ve rammed on your wig and slipped on your gown again. You whirl around, still behind your desk to face him and he swivels on his heel to do the same to you, his hair slightly out of place, but largely neat, his eyes challenging and murky looking, something that is accentuated by the grey tie that he’s wearing. “Mr. Holmes you can’t be in here,” is what you get out automatically. Can’t he just leave you alone for today? Its been enough of a surprise to see him again. 

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow up at you and you feel a sudden fear in that moment. “Call me Mycroft please. We were friends once weren’t we? At least that’s what I thought we were.” He looks upset now, vulnerable, the strain of seeing you again as well as what his brother is up for is clearly taking its toll on him. His head goes off to the side. 

 

Again you feel that stirring of something inside you. “Are you really going to bring that up _now?”_ you ask him. “Don’t you have more important things to think about? Like your brother?” You feel bad for saying it, for hurting him and making his eyes flash, before he could hurt you, but you can’t let him try and get answers out of you now. You just can’t. 

 

“I am thinking about Sherlock yes,” he says, his tone all edgy now, “But I'm sure you’ll forgive me when I say that since you left without a single word the matter of your departure is something that’s been playing on my mind for a very long time.” He looks at you all loaded. 

 

“Well I'm sure _you’ll_ understand when I say that considering your brother’s now up for what he is its left me questioning what’s going on with your family too? You’ve got a cross-dressing uncle, a sister who’s in a mental institution and a brother who’s now”-

 

“My brother’s not a murderer,” Mycroft says firmly, his voice just about managing not to tremble. 

 

“Whatever he is you can’t be in here,” is what you repeat doggedly, “This is not a place for the public”-

 

 _“Public?”_ he asks, nearly losing his cool. “Is that all I am to you?” You stare at him without saying a word. “I thought”-his eyes latch onto yours, before they dip down and your fists clench to combat your heart’s wobble because he looks suddenly so helpless and you can’t bear to be the same-“That what with us once knowing each other, and the way that you fought for him earlier, maybe I could appeal to you on behalf of my brother?” His hand goes to his hair. He looks at you through his fingers, through the little pushing movement he makes with them and your heart does that vibration again, remembering how his curl used to drop down. 

 

Your mind though is beginning to digest what he’d just said and you feel speechless because of it. “I wasn’t fighting for your brother!” you exclaim. “I wasn’t defending him more than I would anyone else! I was just doing my job!” Mycroft’s mouth makes an ‘O,’ at that. Obviously he’d thought that because you’d once been friends with him you’d felt something more for Sherlock than you would with a normal defendant. Not wanting to say that he’s right you stalk around your desk. Mycroft grounds himself more, lifting his chin up and looking for all the world like a Naval officer that’s about to be inspected by the Queen. You stop in front of him now. “You can’t come in here and expect me to do favours for your brother!” You have a sudden thought. “Is that the only reason I got this case? Do you have some high-up position now and you thought that you could swan in here because I’d be a light touch who could help get your brother off?” Mycroft opens his mouth, but before he can say anything you add fervently, “Well you can’t! You can’t make me do that! The person you knew then? She’s gone!”

 

Mycroft licks at his lips contemplatively. “Perhaps she is,” he says, “And for the record no, I have a desk job with the Ministry of Defence now, but it’s a minor position and I did not know that I’d be seeing you today any more than I expect you thought you’d be seeing me. You got the case file late didn't you?” 

 

The muscles in your face tighten. “Are you making another leap? Or is your position less minor than you're letting on?”

 

Mycroft shifts his position now. “My brother is not a bad person. He’s been set-up.” 

 

 _“Set-up?”_ you exclaim, dumbstruck, before you attempt to rake a hand back through your hair, but it gets caught in your wig. You lower it again and momentarily close your eyes. “Oh, I see what this is, but I'm not here to listen to your conspiracy theories now Mycroft. I'm sorry if you haven’t found another person to hear you out, but you can’t come here saying those sorts of things to me.” 

 

“Even though I was right before?” Mycroft challenges you with desperate eyes and he looks satisfied when you bow your head, letting out a deep breath. 

 

“Just because we’re going to war now doesn’t mean that you were right before or that we've been heading to the point we’re in now for a long time.” You look at him.

 

“F/N.” He gives you a look, as if to say, ‘Come on.’ 

 

“I have to focus on my job,” you tell him, still meeting his gaze with some difficulty. Your chin feels like it wants to push back down against your chest. 

 

“What’s happened to you?” Mycroft half-turns away, before he looks back at you, sounding frustrated. You want to yell at him in that moment. Want to yell that MI6 happened, that _he_ happened, but you don’t. Instead you just stand there in a resolute silence. “I never thought you’d change so much that you wouldn't even want to stand up for what’s right any more.” Your lips grow tight. If only he knew that you’ve been trying to do what’s right for years now. “My brother’s not a murderer. He’s fallen into drugs yes and I wish to God that he hadn’t, but he told me that he hadn’t killed Baker at the hospital and I believe him. According to him he did have an argument with Baker, but then fell unconscious. He doesn’t even remember when Baker did so. I don’t know why, but MI6 have made my brother look like he’s killed someone. There must have been a third person there that night who knocked my brother unconscious and then killed Baker. I'm guessing that since this has brought us together again it has something to do with us, but I don’t know what.” 

 

You think you might and you feel suddenly afraid. You wish that you’d interrupted him and not let him say what he just has. “I can’t listen to this. I'm sorry, but I can’t. I’ll probably have to pull myself off the case now you’ve come here and that I know he’s your brother. It wouldn't look good if anyone found out about our past association.” 

 

“I thought you’d have more guts than that,” he says, and his quiet voice of disappointment makes you feel hollower inside than anything he’s said previously. 

 

“Put yourself in my shoes,” you tell him, wanting to get him to understand more. You step forwards and put your hands upon his shoulders. You look at him imploringly. “What you’re suggesting is a theory. I can’t see anything right now that proves it and I can’t have all the hard work I’ve put in being undone. I need to follow the rules, not push your theories and go against everything right now.” You let go of him again.

 

“But just think about it,” Mycroft urges, “The more you do so the more sense that this will make as being a set-up to you.” You look at him. “In the prosecution file that you must have access to, is there a hint anywhere that they’ll be drawing a line between what happened with Eurus before and what’s happening with Sherlock now? That they’ll be making my whole family look unhinged? Because if there isn't then that smacks even more of something going on here. Why would they cover something like that up otherwise? To be kind? To do what I want them to because I don’t think that they care about things like that.” You falter in your gaze now and look away, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. You haven’t read much, but nothing that you’ve scanned over has given the slightest hint that they’re going to be mentioning Eurus in this case. Still, you might just have not come across it yet or it might not be on paper. The prosecution likes to make a show with the occasional surprise. Both sides do. Mycroft just seems to be more dissatisfied by your behaviour. “What happened to you?” he asks again, his voice more thoughtful. “The F/N I knew was determined. She would have done anything to find out the truth if I’d told her what I’ve just told you. If she thought that someone might be in trouble and that she could help then she’d do something. I thought the F/N that I saw in court this morning had that drive too, but back here you’re”-

 

“Maybe I’ve just learnt not to poke my nose in,” you say ruefully now, letting out a breath and half-turning away from him. Already you’ve said too much and you close your eyes for one singular moment. 

 

He pushes closer to you. “Why did you leave like that? So suddenly?” His head dips down towards yours. You let out a sharp breath and try and push him back again, before you let go of him. “What happened to the person that I loved?” Suddenly his hands are on your waist and you’re being steered around to the wall. As your back hits against it his lips reach for yours, wanting to know that you’re still that same person, to be reassured that you haven’t changed that much. You let out a little squeak. But then anger rolls through you in a rush and before he can kiss you your fingers splay against his face. They clutch onto his nose, and, whilst he breathes unevenly in agony you use the force of that one hand and the other on his waist to slam him back against the wall. Your wig threatens to fall off as you do so, revealing your slightly untamed h/c hair. 

 

“I told you,” you growl, your body almost trembling with anger, “I told you that if I ever had cause to treat you the way that I did with George then I would.” Mycroft mumbles something, but with part of his hand covering up his nose and mouth you can’t hear him. “How dare you!” Your hands fist up, whilst Mycroft pants and blinks at you in astonishment. “How dare you come here and ask me that. Bring all that up again when I have worked so hard to get away from it all and distance myself. I have put a damn lot of hard work in just to get people to treat me with respect here. I am not letting you ruin it now and I am not going back there!”-

 

“F/N I”-

 

“I'm needed in court.” 

 

“I don’t want to ruin anything for you,” he says, his hands raised. 

 

“No? You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” You stride towards the door, your breaths coming out in little spurts. Before you can go through it however you stop, your muscles tense. You turn back to him. He’s looking at you, his face pale. The act of meeting again seems to have taken a toll on him as much as it has on you. “You know?” You draw yourself up. “When we passed training, when we got our code names I thought they were cruel in giving you ‘Antarctica.’ Thought it was a remainder to never let the ice inside you break up, to maintain some decorum at all times, to never cause everyone trouble like your uncle did. But beneath that ice you cared. You still do, I can tell. You haven’t been able to stop. And thank God because you need that. No matter what anyone else thinks. But coming in here and acting so selfishly without any regard for my feelings, letting the care that you feel for your brother get in the way of anything else, well, perhaps you’ve managed to find the best of both worlds and live up to your codename anyway?”

 

Mycroft eyes you calculatingly. “You know that codename suits me no more now than it did on the day that they gave it to me…perhaps, however, it is you who should have been given it? It goes with you. I can see that now.” His words feel like a wintry hand on all your organs, squeezing them tighter together. 

 

There would have been a time when you’d retorted to that. But now all you do is let out a little breath and turn your head away. “I'm needed in court,” you repeat, adjusting your wig, “There’ll be someone coming to fetch me if I don’t go now and I don’t want any one to see you when you’re not supposed to be here.” You look back at him now in spite of yourself. He waves a hand as if to say, ‘Be my guest.’ You blow out a breath and leave. 

 

*

 

You barely pay attention that afternoon as the first witness for the prosecution is called. All you can think about is Mycroft’s words. Have you gone cold? You suppose that you have. It’s like you’d told him you’ve changed, but you don’t think you’ve grown hardened. Just… _tougher._ You’ve had to. Elsa Clark seems pleased that you’re letting her ask questions that you’d usually remark upon. She glances at you from time to time. Thomas Chandler seems frustrated. Sometimes you catch him giving you a little look and stare back at him, before you sink back into your thoughts once more. You don’t look at Mycroft. You’re sure that all you’d see if you did is disappointment and resentment. A couple of hours later and the case is adjourned for the day. The jury is reminded not to look up the case or do any reading on it, before they’re dismissed. You go back to your chambers, letting out a little breath of relief as you take off your wig, before you lower it down to the desk. You itch at your hair and tidy it up a little, before you slip your gown and all its annoying fastenings off you. Your body releases a little shiver; glad to be free from its confines. You stretch your muscles, take a steadying breath and hang your gown up. You’ll go for a jog tonight, or maybe first thing. Perhaps you’ll just have a shower and a think. Or a bath. That would be nice you muse. A bath with lovely smelling bubbles and perhaps the odd scented candle. Yes, that sounds very nice indeed. You pack your things up and take your leave, fluffing your hair up on your way out. You hope that you won’t meet Mycroft again. You get through the maze of the wooden interiors without an encounter and manage to step out onto the damp pavement outside. The rain’s stopped now, but the smell of it still lingers. You move your briefcase from one arm to the other, adjusting the load of your coat on top of it. It’s then that you see him. He’s standing on the kerb, clad in a dark coat, his back to you. He appears to be smoking. You stare at him for one long moment and he must feel it for he turns. His eyes are questioning at first. They wonder who has broken up his thought. But then they find you and they change again. He lowers the cigarette from his lips and blows a cloud of smoke out towards you. You look at him through it, barely blinking. Your eyes hold onto each other’s steadily and then you turn pointedly away from him. You’ve only taken a couple of steps when you become annoyed with your load once more. There are taxis outside the court all the time, but you won’t be taking one of them today. Instead you will go further, just so that you can increase your distance from Mycroft. You lower your briefcase to the floor. You can still feel his eyes on you. You rebuff them with a toss of your hair. You pull on your black coat and wrap it around you, before you pick up your briefcase once more. You stride off into the darkening day. 

 

*

 

You fail to sleep that night, tossing and turning until you finally push off the covers and get up. You dress in your jogging clothes, do your stretches and slip out of your small, yet comfortable apartment. It’s a riverside one now and more secure. You have to type a code into a keypad by the main door just to go in and out of the block. You jog steadily, your limbs still a little soft from sleep and the luxurious bath you’d allowed yourself earlier. Your mind too feels weary, wanting to pass the day you’ve just had off as a dream. Not wanting to free-fall properly into all the worry that you’ve started to. You carry on, only slowing down when you’re a few feet away from the recognizable figure who’s sitting on a bench that overlooks the Thames. It takes you a moment to work out that the lanky man with his arms splayed wide across the back of the bench and the light that nearly turns his hair amber is Mycroft. His face looks haunted, eyes lost in the river. It takes you another moment after that to recall that the very bench he’s sitting on now is the one that you both used to stop at when you’d gone jogging together and that your body has somehow taken you on the route that you haven’t gone on since all those years ago and not the one you’ve been using ever since, which carefully avoids all these old places. You slow to a stop. Your mouth pants and one hand rests upon your hip. Should you talk to him or just go back? _Could_ you even sneak past him? But then he turns his head and all thoughts of passing him by without him noticing fade like the last darkness of the night. He looks straight at you, almost looking through you, and you wonder for a moment if he hasn’t seen you. But then he turns his head away so sharply and gives a great harrumph, folding his arms back into his body and sitting up straighter that you know that he has. One foot of yours goes in front of the other as if you’re starting a race, before you oscillate. Finally you stumble forwards, nearly overbalancing as you force yourself. You perch right on the end of the bench that he’s sitting on. 

 

You look at him, but he stares out at the Thames for the longest of moments, before he asks, “What made you join me?” 

 

“It’s a free country.” You sniff, before you lean further back, growing more at home. 

 

“It is,” Mycroft acknowledges, glancing at you, before he looks out at the Thames again. “Though it might not be for very much longer. I was right and you know I was.” Once more he’s pushing you. ‘Since I was right before why won’t you take what I’m saying about Sherlock seriously now? Are you truly so cold?’ He looks back at you. 

 

“Yes,” you say, finally admitting that much at least. You look away. “You were.” Something that’s satisfied comes across his face. But you’re too busy looking at the Thames. Your pupils dilate a little as they take in the way that the light’s bouncing across the water. You don’t want to think about the upcoming war or the places that right now might be being set for your own personal battlefield. Both are too close to what had happened before. 

 

Mycroft shifts his position. He’s not ready to stop talking about the war yet. “What happened on September 11th 2001 was the final ammunition that America needed. You must know yourself that they barely wasted any time in invading Afghanistan after that and now all this is going to be happening in Iraq…America can’t be blamed for wanting justice of course, but in the end don’t you think that more innocent lives are going to be lost than dragons slayed?” 

 

You look at him, wondering about the dragon comment, but he’s looking at you intently. “Of course I do.” You let out a breath and look away again. 

 

“Neither of us can help stop that”-your breath shudders inside your chest-“But if you could help get justice for just one innocent person closer to home-?”

 

“If you’re talking about your brother-?” You look at him heatedly. 

 

“Of course I am.” He stares back at you. His lips rub against each other in frustration. “F/N, I know I'm not wrong when I say that you didn't take early retirement because you wanted to.” One of his hands returns to the back of the bench now, as he goes back to this. Instead of giving him anything you look down at his hand, taking in the way that the light makes the freckles stand out more against the paleness of his skin. 

 

“I need to continue with my jog,” you finally say, standing up. 

 

Still he looks at you. “Just answer me this, before we do. How many times have we watched the sunrise from this very spot?” You swallow. Your body blocks his from most of the said sun’s light. It splays out from behind you in an explosion. “And did you ever think then that there would come a day where you’d find yourself in a state where you wouldn't even be able to answer a simple question from me?” No, you hadn’t, you thought, but you look away, once more reminded of how much you’ve changed. He stands too. “Where you wouldn't even be able to carry out a favour to me? You looking into the truth of that night, by the way, would not only help Sherlock, but also serve as a good beginning to an apology for leaving me the way that you did.” 

 

“What makes you think that I want to apologize?” you challenge him. “I know we've come together again because of this case, but after it…” You look away. You have no intention to keep seeing him. 

 

“What happened F/N?” You look back at him now, your lips parting, before you turn your head stubbornly away and move off at a jog. “Why did you leave and why won’t you talk to me about it?” 

 

As he looks at you as you disappear into a blaze of early morning sunshine and your body is swallowed up by the light Mycroft closes his eyes. He wants to know the truth, but you’re making it so hard for him. For a moment he’s taken back in time again. To that day when he’d been in the MI6 building, sat in a dimly lit office, waiting for his superior to come and do a de-brief with him. He’d been back from Russia for about four and a half hours. You’d been separated from him at the airport and he hadn’t seen you since. He’d been stressed and a little on edge because of it. You’d been in such close proximity ever since you’d both left for Russia, barely out of each other’s sight and he’d clung onto your presence a lot more than he’d like to admit. Not having you here with him then had just reminded him of all the terrible times when he hadn’t been sure if you’d make it out alive during the trip. He’d leaned forwards and breathed deeply towards the floor. Finally his superior had arrived, his tanned hands and face looking out of place with his silver hair. Mycroft had remembered how cold he and you had been for the majority of the trip and thought that it hadn’t been fair for the man in front of him to show signs of just having returned from a holiday. Mycroft had asked about you. He hadn’t been able to help it. He hadn’t been given a straight answer and that had panicked him. Finally he’d been told that you’d already been de-briefed. Still Mycroft had felt uneasy. He’d had good reason to. For when he’d left the building and checked his phone he’d seen that he’d received a message from you that said: _Got to go away for a few days. Something’s come up with my family. Don’t worry. X._ That had just made him worry all the more. He’d gone straight around to yours. There he’d knocked on the door and uttered your name, but there had been no answer. It had been like you’d left. Only, Mycroft hadn’t thought that you had. He’d just had a… _feeling._ He’d gone around to yours the next morning, all dressed for a jog-he’d even had his headlamp on ready-and with hope in his heart. He’d been despondent and bowed his head when you’d failed to answer. He’d continued to go around to yours every day. He’d stopped dressing for a jog, but every morning heralded a new day and a new opportunity where he might see you again. Finally a middle-aged woman and one of the people in the neighbouring flats had spotted him and said that she’d seen you going off somewhere with a big case. Mycroft had been reminded of the smaller one that you’d brought to Russia. The woman had said that it hadn’t looked like you’d be coming back there in a hurry. You had gone off somewhere then. Perhaps what you’d sent him had been genuine. But still Mycroft had texted you. When that hadn’t turned up anything or reassured him enough and the few days that you were supposed to be away for had become extended into a week and then another until a whole month had gone by Mycroft had made the trip to see his uncle. 

 

That had been an uncomfortable visit to say the least. The day had been a hot and humid one, making the dark office of his uncle’s even more sweltering. Mycroft’s brow had prickled with sweat just from the act of sitting down in the chair that he likes to avoid. He’d decided not to do so that day. If he was going to hear anything about you then he wanted to digest it fully, not only a little due to him growing weary from standing. That day though he’d felt tired from sitting just as fast. His uncle hadn’t wanted him there. He’d seemed irritable and on edge. He’d said that he only had a few minutes, before someone was due in for a meeting. 

 

Mycroft had thought that he might as well get straight to the point in that case. “It’s about F/N,” he’d said. His hands had only moved slightly across his lap in embarrassment and though his face had felt the sheen of a flush going straight across it, it had felt like a manageable one. A steady one. 

 

His uncle had looked up from his papers properly for the first time since Mycroft had entered his office. He’d let out a little sigh and pushed them away, depositing his pen down on the table. “I was wondering if you might come and see me about her. I have to say”-he’d leaned back in his chair at that point-“I'm disappointed that you have.”

 

Mycroft’s stomach had clenched, but something, perhaps what he felt for you, had overridden the usual point where he’d withdraw and leave the thing alone. “It’s not about disappointing you Uncle. It’s about finding the truth,” he’d said. 

 

“The truth can be a dangerous thing Mycroft,” his uncle had told him after a prominent pause, “I warned you when we discussed her that you might be better off not getting involved.”

 

“I just want to try and understand what might have happened. She says she’s fine, but I know that she’s not.” Mycroft had leant forward at that. His fingers had nearly stabbed the edge of the desk. 

 

His uncle had raised an eyebrow at him and Mycroft had sat back ever so slightly, but his face had still worn that expression of determination. “Sometimes that old saying is true I'm afraid. Ignorance can be bliss. I'm going to give you one last chance to walk out of here without knowing anything.” Mycroft’s fingers had curled around the edge of the chair slightly as if he was a spaceman in a rocket waiting for blast off, but he’d stayed. He wasn’t about to leave. No matter what his uncle was about to say he’d rather have new information to digest and perhaps be able to act on it than feel like he was floating around lost any longer. “All right. Maybe it’s for the best this way. You’ll be able to move on.” His uncle had sighed and shuffled some of his papers restlessly, before he’d layed them down again. He’d looked Mycroft dead in the eye. “Some information came to light about F/N’s conduct in Russia. She was questioned about it on her return and it was decided that it would be best if she took early retirement from this career and found another.”

 

Mycroft’s head had spun at that and he’d suddenly wondered the most stupid thing: would that mean an end to all your jogging together? Before he’d inwardly cursed himself and forced out, “What information?” whilst his uncle had spun before him. 

 

His uncle had bit on his lip and looked as if he might be in two minds about whether or not to proceed. Finally he’d seemed to decide that he’d come this far and said, “She behaved inappropriately with a target.” 

 

“By ‘inappropriately’ you mean-?” Mycroft had questioned even though his mind had started to become numb because of his heart’s erratic pumping. 

 

“I mean she had a sexual relationship,” his uncle had said with a little heat in his voice, as if to ask how naïve and stupid Mycroft could be. Mycroft’s fingers had twitched at that and his eyes had slightly widened, but other than that he hadn’t reacted. The only thing that his mind could think had been, _‘No.’_ Nothing logical, just, ‘No,’ and he’d come to hate that instantly human reaction, that doubt of you. “I'm sorry Mycroft,” his uncle had said, before he’d looked down and pulled his papers towards him again, as if Mycroft had been committing a sin in front of him and he couldn't bear to witness it. 

 

Mycroft has always been the type of person to give himself some space to think, before he reacted, and so, like a good boy, rather than yelling or blurting out the new truth, which was starting to chip away and thaw the numbness of his mind he’d left the office quietly. He hadn’t gone back to work. Instead he’d picked up a light brown tub of yellow tulips and taken them around to your flat. You hadn’t returned, so he’d just left them by the door. Then he’d tried to text you. He’d wanted you to know what he’d just been told by his uncle and that he didn't believe it. He knew you. He knew you would not do that, not even if you were absolutely terrified. You’d handled the George thing so well after all and he knew that the woman he’d left at the airport a month ago hadn’t fallen in love in Russia or even pretended to. But the message he’d read over and over had bounced back to him, whilst the tulips laid at his feet. You must have changed your phone. He’d let out a sigh and tucked his own back into his pocket. He’d left the tulips where they were. There was no message with them but he knew that if you came back to the flat then you’d know that they were from him. They were the same colour as the lovely chalk background in the drawing you’d done of him. He’d hoped that you’d understand that, that meant he was keeping his faith in you.

 

He’d gone home then and spent the rest of the day thinking. Joining the dots it had become clear to him that the higher-ups had saved the transgression of what had happened between George and you to use against you and they’d found the perfect time to now. He’d thought back to just after the party in December. That had been when things had started to change. When he’d begun to worry about you in a much more conscious fashion. You’d been withdrawn, thoughtful. He’d been afraid that James had taken you somewhere, that he’d done something to you. He’d become even more alarmed when your hair had shifted as you’d been out jogging one day and he’d caught sight of a bruise on your back. When you’d got back to your flat he’d made you take your top off. You’d been panicked and shy, but he’d dismissed it and gotten angry. That had been no time to worry about what your body looked like. You’d stood, in the end, with your back to him as tears ran down your face. Your body had erupted in goose pimples, but Mycroft had not taken any notice of them. His eyes had been rigidly fixed on the dark mark that bloomed just over the top of your bra strap. When you’d given him a moment you’d turned back around to him slowly. You’d tripped you’d said, fallen awkwardly. It had knocked the wind out of you. Mycroft had said that it must have. He’d known that you were lying. He hadn’t understood why, but he’d needed more time to process it. Then your mentors had thrown a huge great distraction in front of you. The remaining candidates would all be doing a brief stint in physical combat and weapons and then you’d be sent off abroad for your final trip just like that. Mycroft had tried to question you about what had happened the night of the party, but between the training and your refusal to talk he hadn’t got anywhere. Then you’d barely passed, before the pair of you had been thrown into mission after mission, sometimes together and sometimes not until it had all culminated in Russia. He should have known then. Things had been happening too fast, but he hadn’t had a chance to think about anything more than the present. It was all he’d been able to do to keep his head above water, but he’d surfaced and you’d drowned when he’d thought that you’d supposedly been right by him. Where was the sense in that? He’d become angrier the more that he’d thought about it, with himself, and more convinced that James had done something to you at the party. He’d gone to see his uncle again the next day. 

 

“Mycroft you haven’t made an appointment. I'm afraid”-

 

“What really happened with F/N?” Mycroft had questioned just as the door had shut behind him. 

 

A muscle had clenched in his uncle’s jaw. “You know what happened. I discussed all this with you yesterday. She was found to have behaved inappropriately and was dismissed. I know you must be finding this hard to take in, but you really”-

 

“I can’t move on until I know the truth.” He’d jabbed his finger towards the floor. If he couldn't even get honesty from his own uncle or you then who was there? His uncle had looked at a loss. Mycroft usually listened to his advice and followed it, or at least tried to. He’d never pushed something so much before. Even his theory that the government was heading for war on false grounds had been dropped relatively quickly. Mycroft’s heels had joined together. He’d been calmer, but no less determined when he’d said, “I applied for this job because I wanted to make a difference, because you saw potential in me. More than that because I thought that I might be able to help save people, and keep the protection over my sister and ensure Sherlock’s safety. I would like to know what has happened to F/N and whether she might need me. If I can’t even do that then”- he’d broken off at that point and looked away, ran his fingers through his hair. There were no windows in his uncle’s office. If there was then maybe he’d have seen the pale light filtering through, felt some hope from it, but the more that he’d stood there the further that hope had seemed. “What was the point in it all?” he’d finally blurted out, in a rare show of desperate honesty. “If I cannot help her now?” He’d looked back at his uncle. 

 

His uncle’s lips had been drawn in a tight line. “Like I said yesterday, I'm sorry that this had to happen to you Mycroft. But perhaps it would do you well to remember now that caring is not an advantage.”

 

Mycroft had known in that moment that the conversation was shut. Known that his uncle was never going to tell him what had happened at the party, how it had affected you or where you are now. If he wanted to find out those things then he’d have to do so himself. He’d nodded, turned around and walked out to the rest of his life. 

 

He hadn’t been able to find out those answers. He’d tried, but the higher-ups had seemed to predict his every move and hadn’t let him into areas where he might be able to obtain papers or footage if such things existed. They’d kept him busy. Whatever had happened was rapidly being buried. He’d started to carry on without even realizing that he was doing so, but he’d never stopped wondering or hoping that he might find out answers some day. 

 

When he’d seen you in court it had all slammed back into him again, as had that drive to find out the truth. 

 

“I'm not letting it go now.” He opens his eyes in the present. The pavement in front of him is devoid of you, but he’s not going to give up. He turns back around, going home so that he can get ready to head back into court. 

 

He half expects you not to be there. For you to have passed the case on and skipped town, be staying wherever your family live, before popping back up in another flat where he’ll be lucky to find you again. But no, you walk in, doing that brisk little stride of yours, which even now reassures a part of himself and gets something settling down inside his heart. Your eyes find his almost at once this time and you do a little clearing of your throat, before you look down at your papers. He watches you, admiring your calm and in control manner just as he had yesterday. The justice system is safe with you; perhaps his brother is too no matter how much you seem to have changed now. 

 

“You saw the man who’s in the defendant box right at this moment arguing with the victim?” Elsa checks. 

 

“Yes. It was him. It isn't right,” the second witness, a blonde haired woman with green eyes, who’d been one of the people to partly hear the argument between Sherlock and Baker and who had then gone on to call 999 says. “Having people that are drugged up and needles so close to a family pub”-

 

“If you could stick to just what you saw and heard Miss. Bernadette and not on your feelings,” you call out, and Mycroft knows it then, you do care, you _must!_ Somehow what he’d said has affected you and Sherlock being here is affecting you.

 

“I'm sorry Judge,” the witness turns her head to you, her voice breathless.

 

“No need to apologize.” You wave a hand, your eyes sliding to your papers. 

 

“But this is important.” You look up, your eyes narrowing. “It was a balmy May evening. There were children close by, walking, on their bikes, eating with their families at the pub, and people like _him”-_ here she throws Sherlock a very dark look indeed as if he is a demon that has risen from the pits of hell itself, threatening to take the children in the community away and corrupt their innocence. 

 

The evidence she’s just given is dripping with sentiment and though the jury shouldn't even take it into consideration you have a feeling that it will be attached to their minds for the rest of the trial. Elsa really knows how to pick her witnesses. “Miss. Bernadette,” you say with a bit of a sigh in your tone, “I'm afraid that if you cannot stick to fact without bringing emotion into it then you will have to retire from the witness box and your evidence will not be taken into consideration.” A bit of a mutter goes up in the public gallery. “Silence in court,” you issue a reminder. Clearly they think that you’re being too hard on her, but you are just trying to cling onto the little control that you still have. 

 

“I wouldn't bother with them,” says a deep baritone voice who does definitely not belong to Miss. Bernadette. It takes you a moment to realize that it is Sherlock who’s speaking and you feel suddenly cold with fury. He’s standing up behind the glass in the dock. What the hell is he playing at? “They’re all idiots.” The security man who’s beside him tries to shush him and steer him back to his seat, but he doesn’t even seem to feel the effect of the officer who must be three stone heavier than him. He’s like a twig that will not snap. 

 

 _“Mr. Holmes!”_ you exclaim in outrage. You are not looking, but Mycroft’s mouth is ajar and his eyes are dark with annoyance. 

 

“Just like these witnesses are,” Sherlock goes on with casualness as if he hasn’t heard you, peering over the security man’s shoulder. Security hisses in his ear but he does not stop. “They've all been chosen to appeal to the jury, nine out of twelve of which by the way are parents, the tenth is a child-minder, eleventh a member of a local woman’s group and the twelfth is a prominent member of neighbourhood watch. All of whom therefore are inclined not to want drug addicts in their community and all of whom are therefore more likely to convict me of the offences that I have been charged with simply to get me out of the way for a bit, whether I am guilty of it or not.” He looks around, as if to assert himself. “I am not by the way.” 

 

“For God’s sake, will no one shut that man up?” you say, half-standing up now, and security once more tries to wrestle Sherlock down into his seat, but he bounces up again like a jack-in-a-box. Mycroft is furious with his brother’s display. His fisted hands turn as pale as they can go upon his lap, his jaw is locked and his face is flushed with both anger and embarrassment. 

 

“You have been chosen. All of you.” Sherlock looks at the jury now. “Even you.” His glittering eyes go to you and your lips part. You are aware of everyone looking between you, aware that you should be re-taking control, but you can’t seem to do anything in that moment. “None of you can see what’s happening here can you?” His eyes tear themselves away from you and travel around all the occupants of the courtroom, the jury, the barristers, _you._ His eyes pause. You close your mouth in an act of defiance and straighten up, but it is too late. He has already seen it. His eyes spark with something. He leans forwards against the security man. “You’re clever.” You let out a breath. “You’re clever and if you know then you have to do something. You cannot let me be convicted.” 

 

You re-gain the ability to speak. “Mr. Holmes it is my belief that you are not only speaking out of turn, but that you are actually harming your chances right now and making it more likely that you are convicted. You will get your chance to speak, that is what your defence counsel are there for, but it will be at an allotted time and in controlled circumstances. Right now you are going to sit back down and the court will adjourn for an early lunch. I will not have you interrupting the proceedings for any longer.” You adjust your gown and sit back down with a flourish. Some of the people in the public gallery actually clap for you. “This is not a TV court,” you remind them, but you feel vindicated. The adrenalin surges beyond your fear in that moment. Mycroft’s not one of the ones clapping however because he’s too busy sending his brother a glare that could kill. 

 

As soon as order is restored and everyone is dismissed he heads to your chambers.

 

“What the hell is it about your family?” you ask, frustration in your tone as you sit behind your desk. You’ve already discarded your gown, but now you pull your wig off and fist it up as you place it upon the table. It blows back up again like a sponge. 

 

Mycroft looks awkward from where he’s standing by the door. “Yes, I'm sorry about that little display,” he says weakly. His hands twist together.

 

 _“Sorry?”_ You get up and stride to the door, closing it and turning to him. “At this rate,” you hiss, “Set-up or not, Sherlock is going to be convicted and I'm going to have to be the one to decide how long he gets sent down for”-

 

“That’s probably what they want”-

 

You let out a scoffing noise. “I'm not listening to all of that.” You turn away from him and attempt to make your way back to your desk, but Mycroft grabs onto your arm. “Mycroft”-you look over your shoulder at him, your eyes dark-“Let go of me or I swear to God”- you gesture with your head to his nether regions. Mycroft quickly lets go of you. 

 

“You seem to be more willing to admit that something’s afoot though?” he says more enquiringly, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking at you with a tilt of his head. “Yesterday you didn't even seem keen to acknowledge anything, but today you seem to be at least taking the possibility into consideration?”

 

You turn back to him properly. “Even if something’s going on then what am I supposed to do about it? I'm just a judge; my role is to be non-partial. I don’t have access to anything. _You’re_ the one who works in MOD.” You gesture at him. 

 

“In a desk job,” Mycroft reminds you, “I don’t”- 

 

“Well surely”- you wave your hands, before you let out a sigh. “Look,” you say, leaning against the side of your desk, “I have every sympathy for the situation that you find yourself in, really I do”-

 

Mycroft lets out a mocking noise. “You have no idea,” his voice is a low rumble now. You stare at him. “No idea what it’s like to have hidden the fact that Eurus is alive from my parents all these years and now have to hide this. To have to sit there”-he gestures towards the court-“And watch my brother press the self-destruct button and not be able to do anything that will pull him back. To have had you leave in the way that you did, all those years ago, and not be given the courtesy of knowing the reason for it, to have you still hiding it from me even now”-

 

“I'm sorry, but I can’t help you,” you interrupt, raising your voice. You stand properly, but you can feel the back of your legs pushing against the wood of the desk because you do not like this and you want to be as far away from it as you can be right now. Mycroft looks at you in a sort of desperate exasperation, and, wanting to help him in spite of yourself, you say, “Anyway, what about your uncle? Even if you can’t do anything then surely he can?” 

 

Mycroft shakes his head and studies the floor. He looks hopeless. Nothing is said for a few moments. This endless, pained silence stretches between you. “I want to know why you left.” He lifts his head up again. 

 

“There are more important”-

 

“Nothing is more important than that!” he yells, beside himself now. You’re made breathless by the sheen of hurt that’s in his eyes. “How could anything be?” 

 

“Fine.” You step forwards. “You want to talk? You want to keep pushing this? Then fine, but you can do so away from here. Come. I’ll buy you lunch. It might calm you down a bit.” 

 

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow up. He is more subdued, but quizzical. “Isn't it usually the man who-?”

 

“Since when have we done what’s usual?” You toss him a bit of a weary smile and move past him. A bit of tension leaves Mycroft. 

 

“Is she with a man?” Elsa’s talking to one of the other barristers just as you come out into the Entrance Hall of the court building, but she stops what she’d been saying now to ask this. You make to go past her wordlessly, chin tilted up. It’s enough to have surprised her, though your blood boils again at her words with that strange mixture of anger and fear that you’d felt when Sherlock had spoken in the courtroom. “Thought she didn't care about things like that? That she was frigid? That’s why she’s been focusing so much on her career because she doesn’t have anything else”-

 

You can’t help it. The combination of her words added to how Sherlock had made things worse for himself earlier and the pressure that you feel from Mycroft pushing you to act though you don’t know how, is enough to get you stopping. You take a deep breath and your fists clench, but that feeling is still there. Mycroft, distracted by the words too, nearly crashes into you and you bump into his shoulder roughly as you whirl around and move past him. 

 

“F/N I don’t think”- his hand tries to grab at your arm and pull you back. _‘I don’t think, as cruel as those words were, that reacting to them will help you right now.’_ You draw your arm forwards and ignore him.

 

“May I remind you?” You push past the dark haired barrister who Elsa had been chatting to and get right up into the latter’s face. “That my role is superior to yours Miss. Clark?” You sense Mycroft’s hands fidgeting behind you. No doubt an awkward smile is playing about his lips. You think that you might leave it at that out of sympathy for him, but something about Elsa’s expression, the slight smirk that you see forming at her mouth perhaps, as you’re turning away from her makes you look back to her and say, “Furthermore I have risen to the place I'm in now through hard work, not through neglecting the other sides of my life”-Mycroft’s heart quivers with something-“Perhaps if you were to make the same commitment then instead of gossiping about the state of my personal affairs you would feel as satisfied with your career as I am with mine.” When Elsa grimaces and nothing more than a little sound escapes her, you turn around and stride away, your heels clacking against the floor. Mycroft, feeling satisfied, nods at both women now, before he turns and hurries after you. “Shut up,” you say when you feel him looking at you, before you smile without being able to help it. 

 

Mycroft shrugs, still peering at you. “How _has_ your personal life been then?” 

 

You feel a slither of amusement. ‘So you’re going there now?’ You think. ‘That was fast.’ You let out a breath, stepping down the steps onto the dry, but bustling pavement. “Elsa was right.” You both come to a stop. “There’s been no one.” You look through the red double-decker bus, all the cars and cabs across the street. There is a telephone box and that seems more appealing to look at than Mycroft. 

 

“But you said”-

 

“I lied,” you cut him off, and there seems to be a frisson in the air between you both suddenly because its always been the both of you. Mycroft and F/N. Ever since the first day of training and now you’re both standing at the edge of another precipice again. Trying to cover up the seriousness of the moment, and indeed everything that is going on right now, you turn your head to him and say, “Glad to see that you’re getting to the point though. Makes a change from all the blushing that you used to do.”

 

“I did try and kiss you yesterday,” he reminds you with a firm gentleness, before he finds that he has to look away from you. 

 

You smile. “What about you?” You too find that you can’t look at him. If he says that there’s someone or that God forbid he’s married in spite of the fact that he’d tried to kiss you, you don’t know what you’re going to do. It would give you an excuse to keep running, _but-_

 

“No, there’s been no one else.” You feel a sudden pressure lessening in your chest. But there’s still enough of it there to get tears pricking at your eyes and for you to let out a whoosh of breath. “F/N”-

 

“I know you feel like you’re going through a rough time, but you don’t know how hard all these years have been for me,” you suddenly blurt out, your face desperate as you look at him because it is hard for you to deal with the fact that he thinks that you’re not doing the right thing. That he doesn’t understand that you’ve been suffering too. You still are. 

 

“I would if you just told me,” he says, all calm, despite the fact that on the inside his heart is racing. Are you about to reveal something? 

 

He tries to guide you gently, with one hand on your arm, to the closest bench, but you feel a sudden well of panic and pull away from him. “This was a mistake. I'm sorry,” you say, going back on your thoughts just as quickly. You try to twist around and move past him, but he puts his hands on your shoulders, before you can. 

 

“Did you get my tulips?” 

 

The question throws you for a moment, but then you nod. “Yeah, I got them.” The words come out dully. You remember getting back to your flat in the dead of the night. You’d nearly fallen over the flowers at first. Their colour had been faded. You’d thought that they must have been there for some time, but, only having been intending to pick up the rest of what you’d needed, before you’d moved out completely, you’d just thrown them in a bin rather than looked at them all that much. Mycroft squeezes at your arms to get you out of the memory again. “Thank you,” you say as he probably wants you to. 

 

His lips rub together and his eyes shine with something as if he’s seen through you completely. “I know it might take you time to tell me everything, that we need to get to know each other again, but at least tell me this. Did James do anything to you at the party?” You shake your head. You look almost relieved and for the first time Mycroft realizes that your departure wasn’t anything to do with James. He feels happy about that for a moment, before it occurs to him that if the thought of being raped seems a happy alternative then what you really went through must have been terrible in the extreme. “And”-he hesitates a little-“None of the men sexually abused you in Russia did they? You weren’t gang raped?”

 

Your face clouds over at that. “You were with me. You know what they did.” 

 

Mycroft squeezes your shoulders. “I know, I just”- _‘My mind’s had years to question, to wonder, to make up alternative stories.’_ But he doesn’t get this last part out for you lift up your sleeves a little. For one sudden moment he wishes that the light was duller and that he could not see the clear, circular red and ravaged marks around each of your wrists that represents where you’d been bound in Russia and nearly sacrificed. 

 

“I’ve still got them, even after all this time,” you tell him a little sadly now as if you might be a little confused as to how that can be. Why haven’t the scars faded yet? Why haven’t you been able to move on? Are you just weak?

 

Carefully, and as if he knows what you’re thinking, he draws up both of your wrists and kisses them, before he holds your hands loosely between you. 

 

“I don’t mind supporting you, whilst this case is happening.” Mycroft’s eyes fill with hope. “I don’t mean I'm going to look into what you think isn't right.” Mycroft’s eyes dim again. “I just mean if you want to talk or whatever, want someone to vent to, but I don’t think we should try and be together again.” You pull your hands free. Uncertainty is written all over your face. Once Mycroft might have taken your words personally, but now he knows better.

 

“Good, because I’ve changed my mind.” He steps back. You look crestfallen and it seems to be taking every ounce of effort for you to look at him. He feels a twinge of grim satisfaction, so you _still_ do feel the same then he thinks. “I believe you haven’t been saying what happened to you for long enough.” You look suddenly panicked about him meaning that. He squeezes lightly at your arm. “I asked my uncle. Do you know what the official story was for why you left?” 

 

You tilt your chin up. “What?” 

 

“They said that you’d had an inappropriate relationship with a target in Russia. They’d rather let your name be completely slandered than let the truth get out.” You bite at your lip. “Why are you going to let them get away with everything? It’s like you’re protecting them when you must know that they’d never”-

 

“It’s not them that I'm protecting.” You look away. You really shouldn't have let _that_ come out. 

 

Mycroft’s heart does a little jump inside his chest. “Then _who?”_

 

You look at him, before you try and change the subject. “Did you believe it? What your uncle told you?” Again you sound more desperate than you’d like. 

 

“No,” Mycroft says firmly. You look at him. _“No.”_

 

“So you didn't even wonder?” you ask him sceptically. 

 

“I wondered and then I dismissed it as being a complete and utter fabrication. Your behaviour today is furthering my belief of that.” You swallow. His face is growing redder now as he grows more frustrated. His belief in you is touching, but the logical part of your brain is starting to kick in more and you know that you can’t waver on this. The stakes are too high. You have to stay firm, no matter what you might really want. “Well,” you say, “Its been really good talking about this, but we’re going to have to dash if we want something to eat. I have to get back to court.” 

 

You make to move on now, but stop when you hear a snort behind you. “F/N,” Mycroft says, coming to stand in front of you once more. “You might have become somewhat successful in shutting yourself off more, in getting this job, but I am not someone that you’ve just met. I am not a barrister who you can charm and be breezy with because you barely have to deal with them. You can stride about as a judge, and believe me I have every admiration for the way that you conduct yourself. I am impressed with your job. You can also move from flat to flat as much as you like, but I know who you are. I have seen you express every emotion under the sun so please stop trying to dodge the issue. I know you are not fine and I want to help.”

 

“You can’t save everyone Mycroft.” 

 

“No, but I can try, just like you do.” You look at him. “Don’t think that I don’t know why you didn't fulfil your legal obligation to tell someone about your connection, no matter how tenuous, to Sherlock, or why you were so upset after he spoke out of turn earlier. You care just as much as I do. That same person is still in there no matter how much you might not want to admit that she is.” 

 

“Well, it’s not exactly looking good for him is it?” you snap, your hands clenching, as you ignore his last words. “He’s probably going to go to prison.” 

 

“I know,” Mycroft reminds you and you swallow, feeling suddenly stupid. Of course he does. He touches at your arm. “He’s been in court before, but it’s never got this far. I suspect that as well as a set-up the reason has a whole lot more to do with the fact that he’s started to harass the police and think that he can solve cases better than them.”

 

“Well, he’s not going to go to prison. Not under my watch.” You feel a sudden flare of determination inside you. Even though you don’t know how you’re going to keep to what you’ve just said you know what it feels like to be made an example of. Like Kelly bloody Flinn you feel like ever since what had happened had taken place you’ve been forced to take the easier route and that’s something you can’t help but feel bitter about. “I loved that job. It was tough, but I could have done so much more with it.” 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, and you suddenly realize that you’d spoken aloud. His hands go to yours again. “So why don’t you tell me what happened? I want to help.” 

 

“You can’t.” You might feel bitter, but you’re not going to take that risk. There’s too much to lose. You begin to move off. The conversation’s closed for the remainder of your break and by the time you both get back to court Mycroft feels more frustrated than reassured.


	8. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft lies to find out the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,  
> Thank you very much for your support! It is much appreciated! :)  
> Just a warning that this chapter contains some sexual situations. ;)

“What did you find out?” is the first thing that Mycroft asks you when he comes to collect you for a jog that following morning. He’s no doubt hoping to take advantage of your early morning sleepiness and learn the truth. He’d been waiting for you when you’d left court the previous day and you’d reluctantly shared your new address with him. He can hear the sounds of water lapping and thinks that you must have a window open at this early hour. The thought that you might not be sleeping properly makes him study you even more. Eyes that are trying to force themselves to be open look back at him. Your face is more lined now even though you are only a year younger than him. He wonders how many times you have just stared out at the river, lost in thought. Not for the first time he wants better for you. 

 

Knowing what he’s doing you let out a little snort and push your hair back. He retreats a little, so that you can lock up. You give him a little perceptive look, as if to say that was a nice try, before you do so. Then you take the lead and he follows you out of the building. He copies your stretches, just like he’d done all those years ago. He notices that you’re wearing a grey, long-sleeved top to work out in now and wonders if it’s because of the marks that are on your wrists. Then, when you are just two people standing there, both of your mouths slightly open, facing each other as the light slowly overtakes the dark you break the eye contact suddenly and turn, setting off at a jog. 

 

“You know?” he says when he catches up with you. “You can tell me.” You glance at him. “I can protect you.” You slow down your pace. Your eyes hold each other’s gazes as steadily as they can with your bouncing positions and you look at him consideringly, before you slow to a stop. 

 

“What? By throwing the stapler that’s on your desk at anyone who comes too close to me?” His lips turn downwards. “Sorry. That wasn’t very nice of me.” You feel immediately guilty and look away again. Together you walk the rest of the way to the bridge. Once you get there you look out, taking a long, deep breath, before you glance back at him. “I don’t have any right to make fun of whatever it is that you do now. It’s good that you’re not on the field any more.” _Safer_ you think to yourself. “As long as that’s what you want to do.” Your fingers squeeze onto the railing and you look away from him again. He shifts closer to you, his head almost hanging over yours. You draw back and peer up at him, blinking a little. “I wish you could protect me,” you say the words so quietly they almost come out as a whisper. 

 

“I can,” Mycroft lies and you know it’s not the truth too, but what you’re carrying seems suddenly so heavy to bear that you let out a little breath and look out. A couple of birds are flying close to the water, the dazzling light bouncing off their wings. You wish that you could be as free as they look. “Or if you wanted to you could tell my uncle,” Mycroft goes on, wanting you to see that action can be taken and that things surely aren't as hopeless as you currently seem to think they are. “I'm sure he has even better means of”-you make a scoffing sound-“What?” Mycroft asks, turning his head towards you. 

 

“I can’t go to him for help.” You turn around and go and sit on the closest bench. 

 

“Why not?” he asks as he joins you. You rub your hands against your dark jogging bottoms. You seem uncomfortable. You look over one shoulder and then the other. “We can go somewhere more private?” Mycroft suggests, as he feels a stirring of excitement inside him. He knows that you’re close to cracking. That you don’t want to keep this to yourself any more. That perhaps you _can’t._

 

You look down at your thin wristwatch. There’s still a couple of hours left, before you have to be at court. You bury your head in your hands, grasping at your hair with your fingers. Is it right to tell him? Part of you wants to and part of you still rebels against it. In any case you’ve been keeping this secret for so long now you don’t know the first thing about how to come out and just say it. You only know one thing. “I'm reluctant to tell you because I want to protect you. I have to tell you that because once this is all out I can’t put it back in again.” You have to be honest. It’s important that Mycroft gets a sense at least of how big this is. That he has the chance to walk away without knowing. 

 

You remind Mycroft of his uncle in that moment, but just like he had then he wants to know the truth. “I can protect myself a lot better if I know what’s going on,” he says, trying to stay calm despite the fact that his heart stills, before it shudders inside his chest. 

 

You blow out a breath. As usual you can’t argue with his logic. “All right. If you’re sure.” You feel mixed, but as you look around you say, “Maybe it’s time, but your flat not mine. They keep bugging it. I'm worried that they’re tapping my phone too.” You look back at him. 

 

Mycroft’s face grows more concerned at that. As one you stand and he puts a splayed hand on your back, before it goes down to grasp at your hand instead. You let out a little breath and he looks at you. Your fingers tighten against each other’s. There’s no going back now. You both know that. He nods and drags you forwards. 

 

The pair of you walk quickly. You reach a taxi rank and get a cab a short distance. Then he, looking around, leads you up the winding steps of a fire escape, before the pair of you slip into his flat, hopefully undetected. You’re nervous even after the door’s closed behind you, looking around. It’s as neat as you would have expected it to be, looking more like a showroom flat, but the polished cleanliness of it makes you even more anxious. 

 

“I'm sorry,” you say finally, your fingers twitching, “I don’t want to breach your privacy or anything, but”-

 

“Make the checks that you need to. I’ll get us a drink.” He walks to the kitchenette now and tries to ignore the sounds of you as you scuttle around. You pull out drawers and try not to blush when you see his underwear in his bedroom or look around the flat too much. You’re there to make sure that you won’t be overheard, nothing more. You root through cupboards and examine beneath the cushions on the settee, which you finally slump down upon, a little breathless, but seemingly content that the flat’s clean now. He stirs your tea, deposits the spoon in the sink and brings it across, adjusting the coffee table, so that it’s more directly in front of you, before he sits down beside you. For a moment the both of you just slurp at your tea, before you settle your cups down on the table. “Right. What’s my uncle got to do with all of this?” Mycroft asks you quite matter-of-factly even though he can feel the trepidation building up inside him. 

 

You blow out a breath. You know that before you answer that you have to explain about what had led up to you leaving the job in the first place. Your hands fidget against your knees and it takes a moment of not looking at him, before you can again. “You were right,” you confess, “Something did happen at the party.” Mycroft feels like he’s holding his breath. “It was when I left you to go to the bathroom.” Mycroft releases a little breath. He’d thought that it might be. You close your eyes now and your mind goes back there. 

 

In the end you’d moved to the door. You hadn’t known that it would be one of the worst choices you’d ever make. You’d heard the voices of a man and woman. Neither of them had stood out or been recognizable to you. 

 

At first you hadn’t been able to decipher exactly what they’d been saying, but then their mumbles had risen into a shout when the man had said, “You can’t keep doing this!” Your heart had jumped at that. You’d pressed your ear closer to the door. 

 

“But people need to know,” the woman had countered, “It’s one thing for you to come home late at night and complain about these things to me, to get them off your chest, but this is bigger than any one of us and people need to be warned about what’s happening. About what the government’s planning.” 

 

“Not like this they don’t.” The man’s tone had grown into a rumble of varying levels. You’d thought that he might be standing up. “The only reason I tell you in the first place is, like you say, to get it off my chest, so that I can try and enjoy the rest of the time, before I have to go back into work again. Not so that you’ll distribute it anonymously and threaten to ruin their plans if people get wind of it”-

 

“That’s why I’ve been doing it in secret, to protect you,” the woman said, and she’d sounded exasperated then. 

 

“But I won’t be able to repay the favour if people find out who it is. They already suspect me and if they find out the truth and that it’s really you, that my mouth’s been playing loose with material it should never have been, then they’ll have my career and the both of us will be shunned,” the man had said in a strained voice. He’d sounded desperate to protect her. “Now I’ve found out the truth this needs to stop.”

 

“No! You need to take a stand! If no one else is noticing then you have to _make_ them! Make them see that the government is heading to war under false pretences!” Your face had paled. Your mind had thought that Mycroft had been right after all. 

 

“I'm not in a position”-

 

“You say that, but it’s not like you’re completely useless. You’re in a position of power. People trust you”-

 

“Trust me? I am the first to arouse suspicion when things go wrong, simply because of my skin colour”-

 

You’d let out a little breath at that. There had only been one man who you’d seen that night who had coloured skin. The important Asian man who Mycroft had been too shy to approach. 

 

“That’s not true,” the woman had said, and she’d sounded on the verge of tears, “Times have changed”-

 

“But the old dinosaurs still cling on”- 

 

You’d thought that you’d heard the woman let out a loud watery breath. But before either of them had said anything more you’d felt a presence behind you and a big fist had slammed into the door, right by your face. You’d let out a little shriek. The voices had died inside the room. The stranger had grabbed at your shoulder, and twisted more at your flesh than your dress as he’d pushed you inside. You’d bitten down hard on the inside of your mouth. Your eyes had looked around. You’d apparently been shoved into an old study. Books had lined the walls in old wooden shelves, a red, black and cream patterned rug sat on the carpet and an old desk that had been lit by candlelight was dead in front of you. As you’d started to suspect the Asian man and his white wife had been present in the room. He’d stood behind the desk, staring at you, and she’d been like a statue beside him, as she’d looked anxious. 

 

“Caught this one listening into you sir,” the man who had nearly been holding you off the floor had spoken. 

 

“Did you now?” the Asian man had licked at his lips consideringly. His eyes had been fixed on you. “Thank you Nigel.” His eyes had gone to the man you couldn't see, but you’d smelt the vague scent of musk that had covered up the sweat and felt the roughness of his hand upon you. “You can leave her with me now.” 

 

The man had released a grunt of acknowledgement and let go of you. You’d nearly fallen flat on the floor; you’d had to put your hands out to steady yourself. You’d heard footsteps retreating behind you. For one split-second you’d wondered if you could flee, but something had kept you in place. 

 

“You can go now,” the man had told his wife. She’d looked between you as if she’d wanted to do no such thing. “Re-join the party,” he’d added with a bit of an edge to his tone. She’d laid a calming hand on his arm; before she’d walked past you, nose in the air. “Sit.” The man had gestured to the rickety chair that had been in front of the desk. You’d swallowed, before you’d made to do so. Inside your mind had whirred, but had come up with nothing like a printer that only churned out blank pages. Your hands had come together on your lap. “Who are you?” the man had asked. 

 

You’d cleared your throat, before you’d spoken evenly when you’d said, “F/N L/N. I'm one of the trainee’s”-

 

“Richard’s group?” the man had attempted to clarify, before he’d added, “I saw you talking to him earlier,” when you’d looked at him with wary eyes. 

 

“That’s right,” you’d said. 

 

“What was your purpose outside just now? Who told you to do that?” he’d asked, as if just because you’re a woman you’d needed constant direction and you couldn't have possibly have done anything under your own steam. You would have thought, going from his wife’s tone and considering what she’d done in getting the information out there, that he would have known that women don’t need a man to instruct them. That they are perfectly capable of making decisions all by themselves. 

 

“No one told me to do it sir.” Your fingers curled around the edge of your chair. He’d looked at you sceptically. “I was on my way to the bathroom when I heard voices. It was just curiosity.” Again he’d given you a long stare. Your heart had pounded inside your chest and your mind had told you that you needed to try and do damage control. “I did not mean to pry.” He’d let out a deep sigh and looked off to the side of you. Knowing that you had a chance to seize control you’d said, “I won’t tell anyone.” 

 

“You fail to realize F/N that it’s not just about the amount of people who know about the government’s plans.” He’d looked at you once more. “Of course that is a problem, but the operation being what it is of course some people know and they have been carefully selected to know and silenced.” He’d sighed. “But you,” he’d gestured, “Finding out like this you have become an anomaly and that is worrying to me. You are not even officially in the service and for you to have discovered such a thing, well, if people working on this plan knew that you had found out then they would become severely anxious about you spilling such a thing”- 

 

“Sir I”-

 

“I appreciate that you might feel horrified at the thought that I can’t trust you F/N. But how can I? I don’t even know you. I’m sure you’re a bright girl who had a promising career in the service ahead of you”-your face had paled then and your body had almost stirred into panic at his words because you hadn’t liked what you’d been hearing-“But put yourself in my shoes. You could reveal the information at any time”-

 

“I”- you’d begun to shake your head, at a loss as to know how you could rescue this. 

 

“You can’t say that you won’t.” He’d leant forwards. His palms had landed flat upon the desk. “If you got the job and were working on a mission in a foreign country, only to get captured then who knows what you might come out with under duress? Even before that if any other country got a hint that you knew who was responsible and that led back to me then not only would you be in danger, but my wife and I would be also. I can’t allow that.” You’d swallowed instead of speaking. You’d felt sick. “Any more than I can allow the information to come out,” the man had said. He’d looked at you almost sorrowfully then, but his tone had been determined. “It would wreck the lives of my wife and I, possibly yours too. De-stabilize the British government. Make us look weak, like we are too close to America. More than that it would de-rail the plans that are in the process of”-

 

“Plans that I know that you do not believe in sir. Why else would you have been discussing them in the way that you seem to have been with your wife? With a heaviness because you know that it’s wrong for the government to mislead people in this way.” The words had come out of your mouth before you could stop them. You’d felt suddenly angry. Wouldn't anyone go against the government and stand up for what’s right? 

 

The man had let out a breath. As he’d leant forwards further his face had looked all the more strained. “It does not matter what I think. What my wife thinks. What you do. Not in the long run.” His voice had grown low. “Do you know what people’s nickname for me is?” You’d shaken your head. “The British Government,” he’d said. You’d let out a breath. “Yes, that is the response that most people who know what I do have I should imagine.” There had been something bitter on his face then. “But that is an exaggeration. There are still people above me and I am not merely talking about God Himself. I do not have ultimate control.” You’d realized then that he’d been trapped in that moment and your heart had sunk. “It would be foolish beyond belief for the British government, or any government for that matter, to plant their eggs all in one basket, which is why they have far more people running the place than just me. That is the very difference between our democracy and a dictatorship, and as much as I disagree with them, as much as I can understand why my wife did what she did, it is too much of a risk for me to speak out now. Much better for me to stay in a silent state of disapproval in my employment and hopefully, if there is a safe chance for me to, make a difference then than for me to let my state of mind get out now and not be able to do anything about it. In any case if the matter of going to war is officially raised there will have to be a vote. All sorts of arguments in favour and against will no doubt come before it and I can question the government’s grounds then should it be safe enough to do so”-

 

“But when is it ever going to be safe enough to do such a thing? To take such a risk?” you’d asked him. You’d wanted to appeal to him. To say that the time for action was right then and not any later. 

 

“The government are too set in their ways right now F/N,” he’d overridden you, “And the British public are too blinded by the richness of our times to want to believe that anything bad might be afoot. Nothing good can come from you or anyone else interfering now and you would do well to heed my words.” He’d paused to take a breath. You’d been able to tell from his unfocused eyes that he’d been thinking hard. “The risk that I speak of and the careful balance of it all is exactly why you knowing what you now do makes it very problematic for me. When you came by that door”-he’d gestured with a flick of his wrist-“To listen in right now you did not know that you were intruding into a very adult world, which is such a shame because as I said, for all intents and purposes, you seemed to be a very promising candidate.” He’d stared at his desk. He’d seemed torn about it all and you’d known in that moment that no matter what he might be saying, and considering, he was not a bad man, a bad person. He’d just got too caught up in everything and you had seemed to as well. Eventually he’d released a long breath and met your eyes again. You’d been too frozen to speak. “I'm sorry. I’d like you to leave now, let me sort this mess out. Your training will continue as normal for the present,” he’d said. Your stomach had still writhed with something, but you’d felt a slither of hope, as if there might be a way out without having to call all the hard work you’d put in to a halt.

 

“So you see,” you say, opening your eyes and coming out of your re-telling in the present, “You were right after all and I’ve known for so long.” You give Mycroft a weak smile. 

 

He looks shocked, and you can’t know that he feels suddenly dizzy, before the crispness of this clear new reality is all that he can suddenly see before him. He should have known he thinks, should have known that it would be about that. “F/N, I'm so sorry, I”- He feels guilty for talking about the war before. He’d just been telling you things as if he was reeling off more facts that you were clueless about. The whole time you’d been sat on the bench, as you’d listened you must have felt so bitter, so dark. 

 

You shake your head and wave your hand. Your eyes look bright, the emotions straining against your heart like fingers on a harp. “Do you remember when we came back from Russia?” you say, seemingly keen to carry on talking now that you’ve started. He senses that you’re afraid that you won’t be able to if you stop for too long. “When a man came and took us off in separate cars?” 

 

“Yes of course.” Mycroft has gone back over that moment several times, wishing that he’d done more than just peck you on the cheek and squeeze at your shoulder. But then again he hadn’t known that, that would be the last time he’d see you for several years. 

 

“Well, on my arrival back,” you say, only half-looking at him now, “I was taken to a room. It looked more like an old study than an office.” You’re taken back there now. 

 

You’d been reminded of the room that you’d been dragged into at the party, the books on the shelves, rug over the carpet, it had made you shiver from the similarity. You’d wondered if you’d been taken there for the express purpose of provoking thoughts of that nature inside you. But, as well as the Asian man this time there had been a familiar face in the form of Richard, who had continued to provide a mentor role to you after your admittance-Marie had done the same with Mycroft-and another man whom you hadn’t recognized. 

 

“You might know me better as ‘Uncle Rudy,’” he’d said when he’d come across to shake your hand and you’d raised an eyebrow in surprise, wondering what the purpose of him being there could be. But you’d felt oddly relieved too. You’d known that he didn't hold much stock by your relationship with Mycroft, but you’d felt sure that when it came down to it he’d help you by being there, just as much as Richard would. How very wrong you’d been. 

 

“Sit down F/N,” Richard had directed you. You’d done so and all three men had stood behind the desk as they’d observed you. “How do you think the operation went?” he’d asked you. 

 

You’d blinked and that’s all it had taken for you to remember the flickering bright flames against the snow, the crisp crackle that they’d made against the wood, your screaming voice, noises that you didn't even know a human could make and blood running down your arm in rivulets along with Mycroft’s pale blue eyes staring at you in horror. Bile had risen in your throat and you’d forced it back down again. You’d itched sub-consciously at your wrists and tried not to flinch when your nails had caught against the marks there. “Well”-you’d broken off and tried to speak steadily when you’d talked again-“Obviously it didn't go exactly as planned.” Even you’d known that, that had been an understatement of epic proportions. 

 

“Which is why we feel it’s appropriate to call the extra time you’ve been cashing in for months now to an end,” the Asian man had announced unblinkingly. 

 

You’d been exhausted, both physically and mentally. Your skin had itched for the warm water of a shower, your mind had craved home and a silly part of it had wished that Mycroft was there, holding you. In the present now you shift closer to him and he lifts one of his hands to rub against your back. But as well as the man’s words sending the cold of Russia, which hadn’t fully left you, properly back inside you again it had set off a spark of anger too. You’d given them months of hard work and devotion in the hope that by proving yourself on mission after mission they’d come to see that you could be trusted, that you wouldn't give the secret you knew up even under duress. Then they’d had the nerve to decide, when you’d felt like you were moments away from collapsing, that they didn't want you anyway? “This has got nothing to do with Russia,” you’d spat, and even _you’d_ been surprised by how angry you’d sounded and by the way that your fists had clenched up.

 

“Things got very close to falling off the line we try to adhere to in Russia,” Richard had said, and there had been nothing friendly about his face. It had been grave then, serious. 

 

“Yeah well perhaps you should have sent more experienced operatives there then? Not two people who have been in this job less than a year!” 

 

“Even you’re admitting that you can’t handle it”-

 

“No.” You’d stood up. “I'm just saying that you can pretend this is to do with Russia as much as you like, but we all know that really it’s because you’re terrified that I'm going to reveal the secret that I know. That the government is planning to go to war with the east and it’s working towards that goal right now.” You’d looked directly at the Asian man then. His face had been smooth, but you’d thought that you’d detected a trace of something else there too. _Fear._ Fear about what you might say about him, his wife, about you letting this secret out at all. “Why can’t any of you see that I am not going to do it?” You’d looked down at the desk momentarily.

 

“Perhaps because you’ve got form,” Richard had said promptly and you’d looked at him then. “The way you reacted after what happened with George before, you were really cross F/N.” Your lips had become a straight line. “I know that you were holding back a little because you were afraid of getting booted out of the process, but you were angry about what had happened. You didn't want it to happen to anyone else and all along you’ve shown quite a strong sense of moral justice. Chances are that you are not going to be able to keep quiet about this.” 

 

You’d thought for a moment. “If you were so worried then it might have made more sense not to keep sending me out on missions.” You’d swayed when all of the men’s faces had gone rigid. “Unless you’re only doing this now because…” as weak as you were you’d begun to pace. 

 

“F/N,” Richard had said and there had been a slither of anxiety in his voice, as if he’d been begging you to not take the thoughts you were speaking any further. “Why don’t you sit back down?” 

 

You hadn’t listened to him. You’d just come to a conclusion. “Because I failed to die?” You’d looked at all of their faces, completely still yourself and seen the truth there. It had felt like someone had just kicked you in the stomach. “All those missions and all the times that things went wrong and there was I thinking that, that’s just how it was. Part of the process. That mistakes would happen on big operations like that, but it was all of you wasn’t it? Leaking the information out that the targets would need to find me, or realize that I was the one watching them? Letting all those things happen in the hope that the biggest leak of all would never escape.” You’d looked away. Your whole body had trembled. “I’d wondered, when the final mission of our training came around so suddenly, whether it was because of me and what I knew. I thought you were going to fail me on it and that would be that. But I performed too good for you didn't I? You knew then that you’d have to let me in. Mycroft and I might have been a little rough to begin with, but we’d put all that hard work in, all that extra thought when the others were out at the pub drinking and we’d become too good for you to simply dismiss. Also no doubt you were worried that if I felt like I hadn’t been treated fairly I’d be more likely to let your secret out. It was safer to keep me close, to use me, see what information I could obtain for you, what dirty work I could do for you until you’d crushed me enough that I had no use any more. Your nephew would have kicked up one hell of a fuss too if I hadn’t been let in.” You look at Rudy. “It was deemed better to avoid all of that, so you sent us both out on missions instead, kept us busy in the hopes that I’d die. That was the only way that you could guarantee that there would be no problem any more.” The men had all looked at you then, stony faced. You hadn’t been able to contemplate the amount of thoughts that their minds must have processed in that moment. “But I didn't die and that was becoming rather problematic for you wasn’t it? So you thought, ‘Why not send me to Russia?’ If anyone could kill me then they probably could, at the very least you could make it look like a tragedy of the elements.” 

 

“It’s like I said before,” the Asian man had spoken, “It’s not just about people knowing F/N. It’s about the type of people and whether they will be silenced or not.”

 

“F/N sit down,” Richard had attempted. 

 

“I'm not sitting down!” you’d snapped, before you’d turned your gaze upon Rudy. “I must say I'm a little surprised that you let Mycroft go with me on a trip that you no doubt felt certain would bring about the end of my life. That was a bit cruel wasn’t it? Not very protective of you. I thought you were different?” You’d placed enough emphasis on those last words to make sure that he’d known you were aware of the sorts of activities he favours when he’s not working. 

 

Rudy had turned towards the two other men. “If you could both leave us? I assure you that I will finish taking care of this matter. F/N will not set foot in this building after today. If she attempts to then all access will be denied.” He’d looked at you. 

 

Richard had looked happy to scurry out without further word, but the Asian man had looked uncomfortable and suddenly he’d said, “Before we do, F/N, we want to tell you that it is not that we don’t appreciate the work that you’ve done. For all intents and purposes you’ve become an outstanding officer. It’s just”-

 

“Circumstances I'm sure,” you’d said roughly. You hadn’t wanted any of his praise right then and you’d held your head up high. 

 

He’d nodded awkwardly at you before he’d looked more even when he’d said, “There will be a job offer coming your way in a few days time. Hopefully that will soften the blow. I suggest that you take it. It suits your background.” 

 

“Stuff your job offer,” you’d said without any further thought. 

 

The Asian man and Richard had left the room. 

 

As soon as they’d gone Rudy had said, “It was wrong of Mycroft to inform you about me.” 

 

“Yeah? Well I know about you and I know about Eurus. Mycroft told me everything and thank God that he did. He’s got so much going on in that head of his and you just expect him to go around normally. He needed to let some of it out.” 

 

“Well you will forget all that now. Forget _him,”_ Rudy had said as he’d come around to you and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, so that his face had been inches away from yours. 

 

“What if I don’t?” You’d known that it wouldn't help, but you hadn’t been able to help but say it. “I mean what’s really going to force me to go now? You can stop me from getting in I'm sure, but I could threaten to take what I know to the press. Wouldn't that stop me from getting sacked?” 

 

“Do you know what they’d do if you managed to carry on now?” Rudy had said. You’d stared at him. “They’d continue to put Mycroft and you on mission after mission until one of you died and the other one of you was too broken to work. Even if you left and you still showed signs of rebellion they could put Mycroft on a dangerous mission where he’d almost certainly be killed in an attempt to shut you up. I'm sure that you don’t want that do you?”

 

“If he knew what you were doing”- 

 

“If you tell him then he becomes a target too,” Rudy had told you simply as he’d pushed himself off your chair and leant against the desk. 

 

“…That’s when I knew that I didn't have a choice. I had to go quietly, had to leave you because if I didn't then the secret I was hiding would either tear us apart or you’d die,” you come out of your memories now. When you’d been talking tears had started to run down your face. You sit there, one of your knees against Mycroft’s, his hand gripping yours. “I thought about telling you that I didn't want to be with you any more, but I couldn't, I just-that would have been the biggest lie of all y’know? One lie too far.” You rub your bottom lip against your top one consideringly. You’re vulnerable in that moment, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. Mycroft makes a soothing noise and holds onto you all the more. He’s shocked from all that he’s heard, but even now a thin veil of anger is starting to creep up inside him. Again he thinks he should have known what it was about. The whole thing had been staring him right in the face the whole time. He’d been so blinded by the fear that someone might have taken advantage of you, so filled with male pride and the need to protect you, almost as if you were his property-a fact, which sickens him most of all because he’d always thought himself different from that-that he’d missed the truth of it completely. He’d never connected your disappearance with the fact that you might have discovered that he was right and the identity of the person who was trying to bring the matter to the world’s attention. “So I took the job that had been offered because it was a good one and I had to admit that. One thing about the people in the government, they know how to make a deal,” you try and joke, before your face grows more serious again. This is not funny to you and it’s not funny to Mycroft either. “I told you that stupid thing about my family and I hoped that eventually you might just”-you shrug-“Get that it wasn’t going to work out between us.” 

 

“We’re going to deal with this. Stop them from harassing you any further.” Mycroft’s hand lifts off your hands, before it goes back down on them again as he pushes closer to you. His face is solemn. You trust him as you have always done in that moment, but you’re worried now about what’s going to happen. Have you made the biggest mistake in your life by telling him? The country is on the cusp of going to war with Iraq. Tensions are high, this is still very much a dominant issue now, and if the British public realized that not only is it true that the country is going to war on false grounds as some people thankfully now think, but realized just how long this war has been in the planning for…well, they’d be horrified. The people who made them see that would be in great trouble indeed. “I'm going to protect you,” Mycroft says, and you let him have that moment of thinking that he can do something for you because all you’ve ever wanted over the years is to be able to do something positive yourself. 

 

“I don’t want my job back or anything,” you say as you go along with it all, “I just”-

 

“I know,” he says, and suddenly his lips are pecking at yours. “You’ve had to deal with this for far too long. You should never have had to.” 

 

“You get why I didn't tell you don’t you?” you say, pulling back. One of your hands touches at his hair. “I just…even if I had and we’d somehow gotten through everything that they’d thrown at us, I could see how things might end up.” His hand tightens against yours. He looks pained by the agony you’ve been put through. “See us standing there one day, in that room, just like the Asian man and his wife when someone had found out what we knew and I didn't want to go there. Didn't want us to have got so entangled that we felt like we had to cut someone’s career short just to protect what we have. I didn't want history repeating itself.” He kisses you again to try and make you feel better. “I still don’t want it to,” you tell him now, your fingers curling around his hair, “But I had to tell you. I think that's another reason why I had to distance myself from you because I knew that I'd end up revealing everything to you if we stayed in touch, that I wouldn't be able to help it…” 

 

“History won’t repeat itself,” he tells you, before he kisses you again, so that he doesn’t have to see you looking so vulnerable any more, all that pain that even now you’re wary of sharing with any one just because of what it might do. Well, he’s going to see it through with you now. He doesn’t care what might happen to him. The guilt that’s writhing inside his stomach at not realizing all this sooner is going to be replaced by something better. His hand clutches at your jaw and his body pushes yours to the back of the settee. 

 

“I’ve got to go to court,” you say, pulling back, and he’s pleased to see that your pupils are dilated, your cheeks pink and that you can hardly keep your eyes away from his lips. “We both have,” you say during a rare moment when your eyes are locked with his. 

 

He kisses you briefly again for good measure, before he pulls back. “All right.” Your eyes graze against each other’s, before, and just as you had that first time you’d kissed the sensible moment is lost and the both of you are giving into what you want to be doing rather than what you _should_ be because you need this. You need this moment of release. Your lips find each other’s again, Mycroft breaking free from yours briefly when he ends up clumsily straddling your lap, so that he’s almost crushing you to the settee. “Sorry,” he murmurs. 

 

“It’s all right,” you say, finding that you don’t mind too much and that you’re much more interested in having his lips against yours right now than in talking. You kiss again, bodies flush against each other’s, you groaning when you feel his erection pressing against your stomach, hands fisting in his hair. He pushes against you as you begin to make little noises, body craving heat from the friction. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. But when he picks you up bridal style you say, “I'm heavy,” your stomach churning with all the insecurities from your past again. 

 

“Only as heavy as a feather,” he assures you, looking at you understandingly now, and as you smile a dimple forms on your cheek. He kisses it. 

 

You cling onto him and guide him to your bedroom. Once there he lies you down on the bed. “Mm, I'm liking all the purple and white,” he says, eyeing your floral patterned wallpaper, curtains and bedspread.

 

“Didn't know that you had an eye for décor Mr. Holmes,” you tease, pulling him down onto the bed with you. 

 

“Mm yes,” he says once he’s half-landed on top of you, “I regularly record all those daytime interior design programmes and spend all my evenings watching them and on the blogs.” 

 

“Sure you do.” Your hand fists onto his top as you kiss again, before it becomes flat. “I know you haven’t changed that much.” 

 

He chuckles. His heart thumps almost directly over yours. Slowly he undresses you and kisses at the marks on your wrists, the circular burn that’s just beneath your shoulder and which you’d received when someone had stabbed a cigarette out on you during a car chase in Berlin, the gunshot wound at the top of your thigh that you’d got running away from someone in a forest in Belgium, the snake bite on your ankle from India and all the countless bruises you’d gotten from your trip to Russia. “You shouldn't have any of them,” he says, his mouth tracing around the lacerations on your stomach-another gift from the Kremlin-“But you’re perfect in spite of them all.” Your fingers brush at his hair encouragingly; your mouth gaped in a pant. 

 

When it comes to your turn to undress him you notice something almost immediately just as you’re about to push his top up. Something that you really think you should have picked up on before. You lift up his hand and study the ring that he has on his finger. Mycroft lifts his head up off the pillow, wondering why you seem to have stopped before you’ve even begun. Then he notices what you’re staring at.

 

“Is this”- your voice comes out a little choked from where you’re straddling him. “The ring that-?” _‘The ring that they gave us just before we left for Russia? To make us look like we were married? The ring that I kept twisting? The ring that you made a little joke about on the way to the plane, so that it would get our minds off the fear we were feeling?’_

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says a little heavily. “I kept mine.” You wish that you’d been able to do the same with yours, but they’d taken it off you almost as soon as you’d arrived back home. Nearly ripped it off your finger in fact. You feel more emotional than ever. Your finger traces the band. He even keeps it on his wedding finger and everything. “My promise to you…that I still believed…that I still do”- Mycroft seems suddenly emotional too and you crush your lips to his. His hand goes to your hair, cupping your face clumsily to him. You feel him release a soft breath against you and pull back. 

 

Then you undress him and kiss and suck at every freckle as well as caress at the whip marks on the back of his shoulders from Russia, the marks where chains had been around his ankles on a boat in China and a long scar, which runs along his thigh courtesy of an operation that he’d had to have when he’d come back from a trip to Australia. “I love you,” you say as you run your fingers along the latter, certainty spread through every word. 

 

“Mm,” Mycroft says, before he shivers when you move your hands up to his pelvic bones. “I love you too.” He lets out a blissful sigh, before his head arches back against the pillow completely when you finally move and lower yourself down upon him. “Ah.” You squeeze onto his chest and scrunch your eyes shut as you take more of him in, moaning a little in pain. Its been so long since you’ve felt this sensation. It rips through you, but tingles too with a hint of the upcoming pleasure. His hands go on top of yours, cradling them, supporting you. “There,” he says once he’s fully inside you and you’re both steady. You open your eyes again, before slowly you begin to move. 

 

*

 

Once it’s over and you’re almost collapsed against Mycroft’s chest, him holding you there with one hand, you ask, “Do you remember our first time in Russia?” 

 

“Mm,” Mycroft grunts. His face turns more melancholy when he remembers how a few days before you’d been due to leave for Russia you’d decided that since you’d have to pretend to be a married couple and act like one on your trip, you’d share a bed to practice getting used to it. You’d cuddled and kissed, but nothing had happened beyond that. When you’d been in the hotel in Russia that first night it had been freezing and both of you had been wearing multiple layers, socks and hats in bed. It hadn’t exactly been what either of had pictured your first time together to look like, or how Mycroft had thought he’d lose his virginity, but somehow cuddling to keep warm had turned into something more and no matter how much the both of you had hissed and flinched as the cold found its way to your bare skin you hadn’t been able to stop. Not only had the act of making love been one of reassurance where you could both express your love for each other, but it had been something new to focus on, something so pure in contrast to what was happening all around you. Once it had been over-he still remembers even now how you’d said his name-he’d clung onto you until morning. He’d looked past your shoulder at the oncoming light and felt in shock about what had just happened. He’d never known that such a physical act could provoke such emotion in him. He’d wanted to do it again. 

 

In the present you seem to be feeling sad too. “We never got a chance to find out what the other liked then.” 

 

“Perhaps we will now,” Mycroft ventures with an indulgent look about his face. 

 

You smile, but then you abruptly realize what time it is and push yourself off him so fast that it makes him hiss and you nearly topple over. “Sorry, but”-

 

“Court. I know.” Mycroft kisses you again. You smile at him in relief, before you go and sort yourself out and get dressed. 

 

*

 

That day in court you can’t stop looking at him. You know that he can’t protect you and that things are going to be difficult now, but just finally being able to express what had happened to you, to him of all people, so that he can understand why you’d been holding off when he’d come to appeal to you on behalf of Sherlock and that you hadn’t been doing it out of a cold nastiness, but rather because you know how bad these things can get, has made you feel better than you have in a long time. 

 

*

 

It doesn’t last. That next morning you’re out jogging together when you catch sight of a headline on a white folded up board outside of a newsagent’s that makes you stop dead and grab onto Mycroft’s arm. He looks at it too. It’s a report about the belief that the UK is heading for war under false pretences. It could just be a coincidence-the UK is going to war now by the looks of things-but you can tell as you look at Mycroft and see that his face has paled that he doesn’t believe it’s merely just for the wider public. Its been put to you both, as a warning. 

 

“It’s all right”-

 

“No it isn't.” You shake your head. “They know that I told you. _How_ can they know? I checked your flat. I _checked_ it”- 

 

“Listen,” he says, turning to you, “Look at me. We’ll go and see my uncle all right? As soon as court gets out this afternoon we’ll have it all out with him. I know what he made you do, but he’s not a bad person. Perhaps he can actually help us with this.”

 

You nod and try and get yourself together again, but the headline, which brings back the memory of why you’d had to leave the service in the first place, doesn’t leave your mind. 

 

*

 

You dwell on it in court all day and when Mycroft joins you in your chambers at the end of the day you’ve worked yourself up into a right state. “Let’s not go and see your uncle,” you blurt out to him. “We should keep it between us.” You’re wary of trusting Rudy after what had happened before. Without his words and the threat of Mycroft’s life hanging over you, you would have never given up on everything so easily. He might be your typical civil servant, but he’s still manipulative and you need to be careful about how you play this. “Work something out”- you break off because you see it then, the crushing reality that you don’t want to face.

 

“I'm lost,” Mycroft confesses, and in that moment between his eyes leaving yours and hitting the desk you see what you don’t want to even more. 

 

“Oh God.” 

 

 _“F/N…”_ Mycroft lets out a little breath. He looks hopeless now. “I’ve been trying to come up with something, but I don’t know what to do about this.” He looks at you. “I’ve been trying to think, but each time I do the emotion of it all gets in the way…” He stares at you with a watery smile that nearly breaks your heart. “I don’t know how we can get them to believe that you won’t tell any one. Not when you’ve already told me.” You tug off your wig and let it fall down to the polished wood with a sigh. Mycroft looks down. “That’s why, no matter what you think about my uncle, he’s the best chance that we have, because the truth is,” Mycroft’s eyes reluctantly go to yours again; he seems to be steeling himself for something, “That when I’ve been watching you in court these past few days I’ve not just been admiring you, but I’ve been a little jealous of you too”-you open your mouth-“Because you’ve got a position of power just like the one I’ve always wanted. The one that I thought would be best. You’ve got that respect. I'm not a high-ranking official. It’s true that I'm more than an errand boy. But I’ve still basically got a minor position. I don’t have a security detail or fancy black cars or anything like that. That’s why I had to go to you in the hope that you’d protect my brother because I couldn't and that’s why we have to go to my uncle now because I can’t protect you.” His eyes fall to the desk again, before he squares his shoulders. “I'm sorry F/N. I wish I had a solution to this.” 

 

“It’s okay.” You try and be brave. “You’ve done enough by just listening to me, and, I don’t think you should give up on us just yet. I think we’ll just take some more time yeah? Give us both a chance to work something out. Then, if that doesn’t work, we’ll go to your uncle.” Mycroft looks doubtful, as if he thinks that you really should be going to his uncle straight away and that you don’t have time to delay, not when Sherlock’s involved too. But you’re adamant. You don’t want to trust someone who’s still very much in the heart of government unless you have to, and, knowing that he can’t very well go and see his uncle without you since you’re so caught up in it all, Mycroft nods. 

 

This, after listening in by the door in the first place, will be your second biggest mistake. 

 

*

 

A few more restless days pass-you can tell just by the way that he looks at you with something deep and troubled about his eyes that Mycroft still wants you both to go and see his uncle as soon as possible, but you are trying to ignore it-and Elsa Clark is bringing the prosecution’s case against Sherlock Holmes to an end.

 

“Allow me to draw this dreadful tale to an end by leaving one last thought with you,” she looks to the jury, “Not one that I shall provide all by myself, but one that I wish to let Gwen Baker, Trent’s mother, give to you all through a victim impact statement that I shall read out.” She flourishes the papers and you can feel another sigh building. In the public gallery Mycroft stiffens and in the dock Sherlock leans forwards, elbows on his knees as he rolls his eyes. You’d tell him to sit up straighter if it wouldn't draw attention to him. “‘From the very moment that Trent was born to me I knew that he was going to be a handful.’” Elsa allows the words to linger and you feel like telling her to get on with it. “ ‘He was always wriggling about, a lively child. He loved being outside and playing sports with his friends. For a very long time I actually believed he might be good enough to be a professional football player when he got older’”-

 

“So we've lost one more person who thinks that the pinnacle of a good career is kicking a ball into a net,” Sherlock interrupts with a shrug, “So what?” he asks now. 

 

You momentarily close your eyes. “Mr. Holmes,” you reprimand him, whilst in your head you are thinking, ‘Jesus Christ,’ because can’t Sherlock do the right thing for himself for once? Mycroft, already knowing the answer to your silent question, lets out a sigh. “If you continue to disrupt proceedings then I'm afraid that you will have to be taken out of court and we will have to carry on without you.” 

 

Sherlock looks across at you. “Instead of telling me off you should be doing something to help me,” he says. 

 

“Oh, believe me I am Mr. Holmes. I am telling you when to be quiet.” 

 

Sherlock gives you a long, obstinate stare, but thankfully does not talk again. You look to Elsa to proceed. She shuffles her papers importantly as she lifts them up into the air again. “ ‘But then our little boy began to change’”-Sherlock lets out a loud yawn and both Mycroft and you nearly crick your necks as you look at him warningly-“ ‘And both my husband and I are aware that a lot of people might hear the case of our Trent and think that we are to blame.’” Here Elsa’s lips purse and she looks across to find Trent’s parents in the public gallery. “No one would ever think you were to blame for all this Mr. and Mrs. Baker”-

 

“If you could just stick to your narrative Miss. Clark?” you intrude. 

 

“Certainly ma’am.” She gives you a little bow and you shake your head at her. Again her papers flap about. “‘But no matter how much we tried, tried to speak to Trent, tried to get him the help that he needed, it was like he was on a path all on his own, that no one else could get to.’” Reminded about Mycroft’s words about Sherlock pushing the button to his own self-destruction you look to both brothers now. Sherlock is looking at the floor and Mycroft is staring at him with a desperate thoughtfulness about his face. You feel pain. You can’t cope with not doing anything for much longer and since you can’t come up with something…you swallow. You’re on the verge of thinking that you _will_ have to go and see Mycroft’s uncle after all. “ ‘The drugs destroyed our son first. They took my happy, smiling boy away from me and replaced him with a man who held all of our son’s features, but looked zombie like from the outside. Even so, as tough as it was to try and get through to him, I fully believe that we would have in the end, but now that chance has been robbed from us. That man’”-here Elsa looks to Sherlock and there is something deliciously dark about her eyes-“ ‘Has stolen our son’s chances of ever coming through the other side, of ever getting better from the cruelty of his addiction and we will never be able to forgive him for that.’” Elsa lets the words hover in the air, attach themselves to the dust and sink into the minds of the jury. “ ‘Whether he is sent to prison or not the most damning thing that I can say is the fact that the man who killed my boy, who took him from the loving embrace of his family, will still have his life, whilst my son will not. But I am determined that my son’s memory will live on. Not what he was like at the end, but the sparkling, happy boy that he was as a child. Those memories will warm my heart forever.’” Elsa looks up now. Again her gaze goes across to Trent’s mother who is crying silently. “A very touching and difficult statement to hear. An act like that can never be forgiven,” she muses thoughtfully, before she looks across at the jury, “I am sure you will agree.” She takes a breath. “Having come to the end of all witnesses and everything that is to be said I put it to you, here today, that on the night of May 2nd 2002, the defendant Sherlock Holmes set out to kill the victim, Trent Baker, with little thought of anything but himself and the drugs that his body craved. Not only have traces of Trent’s skin been found underneath the defendant’s fingernails, perfectly in line with the suffocation that the victim endured, but a needle with the defendant’s fingerprints was found sticking out of the victim’s arm. That in my mind is damning forensic evidence.” You have a sudden vision of the forensic evidence being botched and a gloved MI6 man wiping the needle with Sherlock’s prints, before poking it into the victim’s arm. He would have then planted further drugs on Sherlock. You glance at Mycroft and can tell from the way that he is staring at you that he’s thinking the same thing. It takes Sherlock to voice it. 

 

“Lies,” he says, one word, crisp and cool. 

 

Elsa looks at him. Everyone does. 

 

“Mr. Holmes, for once in your life be quiet,” you snap, your voice close to breaking. Can’t he just stop himself from talking for once in his life? Keep the thoughts inside his head? You know that he doesn’t know you, but surely he knows that his brother will be trying to do his best for him? 

 

“You see?” Elsa says once she continues. “Even now, and all throughout the case, the defendant, whether guilty or not has provided us with a constant stream of interruptions, showing no remorse for the death of the victim, not the slightest care for the tragic circumstances in which he was found. That, the evidence which I have spoken to you about and the fact that we have had witnesses in this very court, telling us that they saw the man who is in the dock arguing with the victim, before they were both found together, should be reason enough for you the jury to find the defendant guilty of not only possessing a Class A substance, but murder.” 

 

You sigh. 

 

*

 

You’re in your chambers, the word _‘murder,’_ which Elsa had declared so clearly, still ringing in your ears. You blink and you get a vision of it for a moment. A vision of you sentencing Sherlock. Something tightens in your chest and your fingers curl. You hate it. All these years down the line and you feel just as trapped as you had when you’d first been dismissed from your old job. You can’t even help Sherlock and you wonder now if this is why the secret service had got you the job of judge, so you just have to sit and watch everything happening without being able to stop any of it. You can’t halt the jury from finding Sherlock guilty. You can’t stop them from having to make you put an innocent man inside. The only thing that you can do is try and pick a sentence that won’t get called out for unfairness, but which will enable Sherlock to get out of there as soon as possible. You sigh. You’d rather not have to send him there at all. 

 

“Come,” Mycroft’s soft voice breaks into your thoughts and you realize now that he’s standing in front of your desk. You hadn’t even heard him enter. You blink, standing up like a confused animal under some sort of trance. “It’s all right.” He comes around to you, takes you in his arms. 

 

You press your face against his shoulder for a moment, before you pull back again. “How can you even say that?” you ask him. “Your brother-?”

 

“I know.” He strokes at your hair, pushing a strand that’s started to drop down across your forehead back into place. He begins to steer you out, one of his arms around your shoulders. 

 

You’re in the entrance hall and you’re starting to feel more comfortable again-no matter what’s going on how can you not with Mycroft so close to you?-when it happens. When Elsa’s voice from the corner calls, “Hey, Miss L/N!” You turn to her slowly. Mycroft’s arm slides off your shoulders. He peers at her too. Elsa’s sending the both of you a delicious smirk. “Is it all right if I ask you a question?” 

 

“As long as it’s about work,” you say with some trepidation in your voice. You approach where she’s standing at the front of a gaggle of other barristers. They’re all watching you. Mycroft trails after you like an uncertain shadow. 

 

“It is kind of about work.” Her sneer if anything grows, as if you’ve walked right into her trap. “It’s just that I’ve been thinking.” She folds her arms messily across her chest in contemplation. “It’s a bit odd isn't it? Your boyfriend coming to watch you everyday in work?” Mycroft and you both stiffen. Neither of you want any one else to know about his connection with Sherlock or they’ll realize that you should have come off the case. Elsa grins now. “Is that how you get your kicks in the relationship?” She looks at Mycroft. “Do you like seeing her in a role of power? Like it when she uses her ‘judges’ tone? Does it turn you on?” 

 

You look at Mycroft, expecting him to be on the verge of making some waspish comment, but to your surprise his jaw just locks and his cheeks turn suddenly pinker. You raise an eyebrow. _‘Interesting,’_ you think, filing the information away for later. Then, since he’s clearly not going to say anything you turn back to Elsa yourself. “My relationship with this man has got nothing to do with work and most definitely nothing to do with you. Goodnight.” With that you take Mycroft’s hand and tug him out of there. 

 

*

 

“It’s not exactly looking good for Sherlock is it?” Mycroft asks, as you come over and deposit the cups of tea on the coffee table. He’s been quiet and thoughtful, and though you’d returned to his flat he’d settled himself on the settee almost instantly, leaving you to make the tea. 

 

You sit beside him. You feel weary, drained. Not wanting him to see that however you say, “No,” with some vigour about your tone. He looks at you. “No, it’s not looking great,” you elaborate, “But then we've had the prosecution spouting their side of things up until now. It never looks good for anyone at this point. But the defence barrister is good, which is presumably why you chose him right?” 

 

“My uncle chose him,” Mycroft says, looking a bit uncertain. You wonder suddenly if he’s starting to doubt his uncle too. 

 

“He’ll do his best for Sherlock,” you say, trying to push your mistrust of anyone who’s in the government and not Mycroft aside. You pat him reassuringly on the knee and tilt your head back against the top of the settee. 

 

“But if it’s a set-up then even if Mr. Chandler does his best…” Mycroft trails off desperately. 

 

You lift your head up and look at him, your lips slightly parted. At seeing the shadow that’s on his face your hand goes to cover his instinctively. “It’ll be all right Mycroft. There’s still some way to go yet.” You settle your head back down again, even closing your eyes. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ there is an edge to his tone and the hesitation there is about his fear of upsetting _you_ now. You look at him. “I can understand why you feel so reluctant, after everything, but I really think that we should go and see my uncle now.” You remove your hand from his. “I just feel uncomfortable about leaving it any longer. We’re halfway through the case as it is. If we leave it any longer then my uncle might not have enough of a chance to do something, before Sherlock gets convicted.” 

 

“There’s always an appeal.” He looks at you. You huff out a breath and fold your arms, gazing up at the ceiling. “I’ve told you before about how I feel about going to see your uncle Mycroft. I don’t feel like we can trust any one. I'm sorry, not even him.”

 

 _“F/N.”_ Mycroft turns towards you more now. His hand touches at your side. You wriggle a little, but allow his hand to settle. It is so gentle that you can barely feel it. “I know that this is difficult for you. I know that you don’t want to get into another battle, but…he’s my brother and I need your support on this. I can’t just”- _‘abandon him. He can’t become another Eurus.’_

 

You raise a hand to your forehead. Your body is arched and all taut. “I know.” You let out a long breath. Mycroft’s fingers begin to stroke rhythmically at your side. You’re a bit ticklish there and it makes you remove his hand. He’s smiling a little, in a pleading fashion, but still in quite a soft way. “ ‘M tired.” You tilt your head back again, closing your eyes. Your arms hang loosely down by your sides. You don’t want to think about this now, not when you’ve been doing so all day. You just want a moment’s break from it all. 

 

Mycroft presses a hand to your forehead in concern. “You’re not feeling well?” he says. “You’re looking a bit pale and you’re a bit hot.” 

 

“I'm fine, just tired.” You look at him. His hand slides to your shoulder. You feel grateful for his concern. “It’s always like this in the middle of a big case and”-your face clouds over-“There’s a lot riding on this one.” His face turns more serious. “Sorry.” You don’t want to bring him down again. “The TV’s probably better company than I am at the moment.” You tilt your head away again and close your eyes. You expect to hear the shift of Mycroft as he picks up the TV remote and the slight buzz as the TV gets switched on, but instead his fingers move to your side again. You open your eyes and look at him curiously. 

 

Mycroft tilts his head back, so that it’s more level with yours. “What do you do to relax when you’re too tired to go out for a jog?” he asks. 

 

You smile and look away for a moment. “Mr. Holmes.” You look back at him coyly. “Are you suggesting that we do what I think you are?” 

 

“That would depend,” he turns his body more towards yours, “On what it is that you think I'm suggesting.” You smile again or perhaps you just haven’t stopped. His head moves close to your ear. “Get undressed,” he says with the hint of a smile. 

 

You put your hand over your heart in mock shock and pull away from him. “We haven’t even had dinner yet.” He’s looking at you knowingly. You smile and get up, leading the way to his bedroom. 

 

Once there and both of your clothes have been removed it’s not long before you’re lying on the bed together, kissing. 

 

“Turn around,” Mycroft urges into your ear as he pulls his head back from yours. He’s got a thin smile playing about his lips. 

 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I thought you preferred it when _I_ was the one giving orders?” His face grows warmer at that, but he looks at you steadily. You smile and do as you’ve been told. You let out a moan when you feel him gently resting on your back as he begins to massage your shoulders. His fingers pinch and roll at your skin and you let out a breathy gasp as your muscles crack pleasurably. You arch up momentarily, before you sink back down again. 

 

“That feels good?” he checks. His eyes have been roaming over you all the time to make sure that he’s having a positive effect on you, but he wants to be sure. 

 

 _“Yes,”_ you breathe, a lazy smile on your face as you move your head, so that it comes to rest on the side of the pillow. As you sink further into the bed’s depths Mycroft seems to descend more securely on you. You let out a moan. You can feel everything and his hands are amazing, but it’s not enough. You look back around at him and he raises an eyebrow at you, as if to ask what the latest request is that you want to be filled? Considering what you’re about to say this pleases you very much. “So, you like my judging voice huh?” Mycroft looks down at your back; a small crooked grin playing about his lips. You can feel him growing harder against you. He looks at you challengingly as if to say, ‘What if I do?’ “What if I were to tell you that I want you to come here now, so that you can make love to me?”

 

Mycroft tilts his head for a moment and pretends to consider. “Then I’d say that I’d have to oblige.” His head straightens. 

 

“In that case, Mr. Holmes,” you begin delicately, before you twist around underneath him and crook a finger his way, “I'm all yours.” 

 

With a predatory smile upon his face he crawls towards you. You arch your head up to watch and then make a sound of great satisfaction as his lips come swooping down over yours. Bucking up against him one hand grasps onto his shoulder. The other wraps itself around his neck. Your fingers brush back and forth against his hair as you tilt more and more up against him. He uses one hand on the bed to steady you both and supports your back with his other. As the passion between you builds the kisses get shorter and shorter until they become teasing nips. Your lips spark with every touch and whenever he runs his tongue against them they feel like they’re on fire. His attention goes down to your neck as you lie properly back down again and his hands begin to cup at your breasts, before his fingers move in further to twist and rub at your nipples until they become hard. You can feel yourself losing more control. You arch up against him. Your mouth begins to gape as your body urges him to take you. Sensing that you’re getting closer one of Mycroft’s hands moves down from your breast and over the soft flesh of your stomach until his fingers hover by your entrance. You let out a bit of a shriek as they dive in suddenly, before you settle down again. More slowly now because of your reaction Mycroft begins to prise you open, his fingers touching at your wet folds, probing and teasing as they stretch you. Your breaths grow louder and distinctly shakier. You feel cold. Every now and again a gasp leaves you as he strokes against a more sensitive spot, and when he reaches the most receptive spot of all your eyes close, hands clawing against the bed sheets. You are close. You can feel it. Your body is taut, little white dots threaten to impede. Settling himself further down upon you, like a cat finding its right position on a rug, but continuing to crook his fingers inside you, his mouth goes to your neck. He is begging you to come for him now. Every grumble and grunt that he makes in between the fire of his lips as they graze you, not to mention the way that his fingers push at that sensitive spot inside you are like pleas. But it’s when he bites down on the lobe of your ear suddenly that you lose it. That’s when a yell gets ripped from your lips and you come gushing onto his hand, your head arching back, your body shuddering, and he moves to kiss and suck at your neck in an attempt to drain every last drop from you and _croons._ It’s the crooning that does it, him telling you that you’re beautiful, that you’re amazing and yes your judging voice turns him on-the possessiveness with, which he says this gets even more juices flowing out of you-but _you_ turn him on. With one final puff as you exhale you settle back down again. Your eyes blink into focus and you look at him. Your expression is lazy now, you’ve reached that higher place, but in his dark blue eyes there is a lust, a need still waiting to be fulfilled. You smile, and then, wanting to have some more fun you flip him around, pinning his wrists down either side of his head. He reacts enthusiastically, his head coming off the pillow to meet yours as you kiss him fervently. You can feel his member, now rock firm and solid, nudging against your leg. His hands rub at your sides encouragingly as he groans into your mouth. 

 

“Mm I want-I want all of you-all of you this time,” you say in between kisses. 

 

“Let me be in control,” he implores. 

 

“All right,” you just about have time to breathe, before he moves you both around again, so that he’s now the one on top. You kiss again, with open mouths this time, your tongues tapping and dancing with one another. One of his hands toys with your breasts, whilst the other checks to make sure that you’re ready for him, before suddenly he’s inside you properly. You gasp out and then your hips are rising up to meet his every thrust and he’s groaning as the headboard shudders behind you. Then suddenly your world becomes a place where everything is white, before the colours all run into each other. His name explodes from your lips, becoming unrecognisable in the garbled scream. Your hands scrape against his back and as he feels you lifting up and clenching around him he comes too, his seed spurting inside you, his eyes scrunched shut. You hold onto each other like you don’t know how to do anything else and then slowly, out of breath, he’s rolling off you and landing beside you with a pleased thump. You look at him with a smile. Your hair is tousled. Both of your bodies are tired and covered in a sheen of sweat. He moves onto his side, smiling too. His hand goes to your hip, curving across onto the smooth plane of your belly. He strokes his thumb across it. 

 

“My uncle?” he enquires, bringing you back into reality all too soon. 

 

You let out a sigh. You don’t want to talk about that right now. There’s been too much stress as it is recently and now, after you’ve just done something so wonderful together, you want to bask in the pleasure of it all for a few moments at least. But knowing too that he needs an explanation as to what’s going on in your head right now, you look at him. Your hand covers where his is on the top of your stomach. “Can’t we just take a couple more days to see what the defence can do?” you appeal to him. 

 

_“F/N.”_

 

You roll onto your side, running a hand down from his shoulder to his chest placatingly. Your eyes drink in the hair there. Short and wiry it glistens with the badge of what you’ve just done. “Just a couple more days and then whether I want to or not if nothing’s changed we can go and see your uncle.” 

 

“All right.” He lets out a sigh and you kiss him to make up for it.

 

Little do you know it then but you won’t have a couple more days. 

 

*

 

Probably because of what you’d told Mycroft you feel weary when the case for the defence begins the next day. Every minute seems to tick by slowly, each carrying heaviness with it, as you wait for something to change or a brilliant idea to come to either your mind or Mycroft’s that will magically get you all out of this without you having to involve anyone else. Of course nothing does and it’s looking more and more inevitable that you’ll have to be seeing Mycroft’s uncle again really soon. You sigh and try to focus on what’s going on in front of you. Since Sherlock’s gone for a ‘Not Guilty’ plea the defence are arguing therefore that he did not kill Baker at all and they’re doing this by saying that the evidence the prosecution brought to light was all circumstantial. Just because Sherlock and Baker were seen arguing with one another doesn’t mean that Sherlock killed Baker otherwise more people would be convicted of murder. Likewise there’s no proof, other from the botched forensics investigation, that Sherlock put the needle into Baker at all or put his hands around the man. You think that Thomas Chandler is doing his best, but that a more sensible line of defence to go down would have been that of diminished responsibility. By admitting that yes, Sherlock had killed Baker, whether that is true or not, but that he’d done so when he wasn’t in his right frame of mind because of the influence of drugs you think that a more convincing case might have been made and that Sherlock would have had a better chance of walking free in the long run. You wouldn't even be surprised if Thomas Chandler had suggested going down that route, but that Sherlock had refused. You don’t know much about Mycroft’s younger brother, but he’s come across to you as being very stubborn and pig-headed in his time here. Also, the fact that the plea is what it is and the defence are going down the line of arguments that they are, makes you think that, whether this is a set-up or not-and you’re pretty certain that it is by this point even though you’ve got no proof-Sherlock is well on his way to becoming a convicted murderer. You look across at Mycroft. He seems to be seeing it too. His face is serious.

 

*

 

“It’s not looking good for your brother,” Elsa catches Mycroft and you just as you’re coming out of court. She’s alone for once, holding a pink umbrella up behind her in the light drizzle. Your heart jumps inside your chest. Mycroft and you turn to her. She can see the truth in both your faces, no matter how hard you both try to cover it up. “He is your brother then?” Her tone is satisfied. 

 

Not gracing her with a reply you tug Mycroft away from there, looking back over your shoulder at Elsa. Her eyes are glittering and a smile is toying about her lips. For once she’s got the upper hand over you. “How the hell does she know?” you spit, feeling more annoyed about that than anything else at the moment. 

 

“I don’t know.” Mycroft pulls you to a stop and you turn back to him. “Someone from the government probably got in touch with her, filled her in. But F/N if she tells someone else then you could lose your job over this. Now that they've made a move we have to too. No more delays.” You swallow. Your heart quickens its pace and all the thoughts in your mind suddenly feel like they’re on fast-forward and you can’t delve into any one of them enough to be satisfied. You’re frozen with fear. “F/N,” Mycroft pushes you, “We must act.”

 

“All right.” You nod, knowing that he’s correct and that it would be foolish to halt things any more. “All right.” Mycroft looks relieved.


	9. Eurus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cost of Mycroft protecting you is steep.

Rudy’s face is full of displeasure as Mycroft leads you into his office a little later that same day. He only has to glance up at you briefly, before a ‘tching’ noise leaves his mouth. His fingers shuffle his papers as if he is distinctly ruffled. His nephew might as well be being followed by the Grim Reaper. You swallow, not getting your hopes up. “I see that the rumour is true then. You have found each other again,” Rudy says as Mycroft and you stop in front of his desk. 

 

“F/N’s told me everything Uncle and”-

 

“Well she shouldn't have,” Rudy looks at you sharply now and you know what he’s thinking. Don’t you have any care for Mycroft any more? Have you become that reckless and insensible? “And you should have never told her about me, but especially about Eurus. Your parents and Sherlock don’t even know”- he’d broken off then. 

 

“Perhaps that’s true,” Mycroft acknowledges, and you feel a flicker of something: _fear._ “But is it really that terrible for me to have someone I can confide in?” You feel steady again. Hope fills you and you feel able to ground yourself. 

 

“You had me,” Rudy says, and as the two men stare at each other you know what’s passing from Mycroft to his uncle even though it’s all conveyed silently. _Yes, but you weren’t enough._

 

“In any case,” Mycroft says, getting to the point, “Buying her silence by threatening my life”- 

 

“My words will be the least of your problems. What have you come here for?” Rudy stands and tilts his head. His eyes are ablaze with something. “Because I do not believe that it is simply to tell me off.” 

 

Mycroft hesitates. He’s never seen his uncle so hostile and if he didn't know before then he can quite believe now that he’d been the man saying all the things that you’d reported him doing. “We need your help,” Mycroft takes the plunge, “We believe that people have become aware of the fact that F/N has told me what she knows. A newspaper headline that came out the following day after she did was suggestive of the fact. You are aware of course that I believe Sherlock has been set-up”-

 

“Naturally, because it was I who told you in the first place that the powers that be think the line of our family is threatening to go jagged again and that they were putting Sherlock in a position where he could be punished if you did anything wrong. You didn't understand then, but do you now Mycroft? Do you see what’s happening _now?”_ He looks almost desperate, his eyes willing his nephew to understand. 

 

“I'm assuming that they were of the belief that it was inevitable that F/N and I would meet again, but that they wanted it to happen under circumstances that they could be in control of”-

 

“And _are_ they in control?” Rudy asks, which you think is cruel and your eyes flare up with heat. 

 

“I suppose…” Mycroft says in a meek voice that you don’t like him using, before he admits, “They've given the information that I am Sherlock’s brother to the barrister for the prosecution on the case and because F/N has not taken herself off it she stands to lose her job.”

 

Rudy looks at you. “You should have removed yourself from it straight away,” he says. “That was extremely foolish of you. Clearly you’ve learnt nothing over the years.” 

 

“F/N was trying to help Uncle,” Mycroft tells him, sounding a little impatient. 

 

“Well a fat lot of good that it’s going to do bringing the case of your brother into disrepute now. All three of you will become figures of mistrust.” Your jaw locks and Mycroft stiffens. Rudy lets out a sigh. “What is it that you want me to do?” he asks. 

 

Mycroft swallows. “We need to find a way of either halting or quashing Sherlock’s conviction, saving F/N’s job and getting the government off her back about what she knows because she has not told anyone and it’s about time that they believed that she won’t.” 

 

Rudy stands up, his head bowed and his fingers toying with his papers again. He seems to be contemplating something. “They’re not going to want to take any risks with this information Mycroft.” Rudy looks up at his nephew again. “You would have done better to stay out of it”-

 

“Perhaps, but now that we’re in the situation that we are”-

 

“I can’t help you,” Rudy’s voice rings clearly around the room. He waves his hands. “I might have more experience than either of you, but my hands are tied I'm afraid.” Like you and your initial reluctance to do something that could upset things again it seems that Rudy knows which side his bread is buttered on. 

 

Mycroft nods and swallows profusely. He does some quick thinking. “Then if you can’t help us directly could you put us in touch with the man whose wife we’re keeping this secret for?”

 

“You should be keeping it for the good of your country and the country’s stability,” Rudy says, once more in a loud tone, as if he’s trying to make a plea to a silent and hidden watcher of this conversation. You feel a prickle of unease and your mistrust of Rudy only grows. You open your mouth, but Mycroft waves a hand at his uncle, as if to tell him to get on with it, before you can say anything. “If you want a meeting then you’ll need to give me more information; like what exactly you’re intending to get out of it?” 

 

“I just want to know that neither of our jobs and our safety will be at risk any more. We have a right to live our lives as fully as we can even though we've got this information.” 

 

“I think we should go now Mycroft,” you say, your nerves on edge. A muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw, but his steely dark blue eyes show that he has every intention of ignoring you. 

 

Rudy however looks at you thoughtfully. “You _have_ learnt something then,” he says, sounding almost satisfied, “When to pull out because you’re not getting anywhere”-

 

“Uncle”-

 

Rudy’s eyes flip back to his nephew. He sits down again with a bit of a sigh. “It sounds like you’re readying yourself up for a fight. It would be more suitable if you went in there and announced that you understand how the situation is and that the pair of you have to be monitored and your lives sometimes interfered with”-

 

“They have tried to have F/N killed Uncle!” Mycroft exclaims, as if his uncle doesn’t quite understand how serious this all is. 

 

Rudy does not look happy. “You think that F/N being killed is the worst possibility?” Mycroft’s mouth wrenches open. “It’s how they’ll do it, which will haunt you. They’ll take her away somewhere, to an underground prison in this very city, or if they fancy being a bit more inventive than instead of just picking at old scars and water boarding they’ll send her off somewhere abroad to get new ones. The Middle East probably. I hear the people there aren't feeling particularly friendly towards Britain and its citizens at the moment.” His lip curls and he looks at you. “You’ll be in some tomb somewhere in Iraq, your body stuffed with sand until you can’t breathe any more.” 

 

Something clicks into place in Mycroft’s head suddenly and he steps forwards. “Uncle do you mean to say that-?” His eyes once more go to you. Your brow furrows. Mycroft looks back at his uncle. You sense that something’s suddenly operating on a deeper level here though you have no idea what. All you can think of is that it must be a family thing. 

 

_“Don’t.”_ Rudy waves a hand. His head drops sideways down onto his shoulder and his eyes glimmer with something. 

 

“If something like that has happened before then you have to help us to stop that from happening now!” 

 

“I _can’t!”_ his uncle snaps back just as fiercely, leaning forwards. 

 

“Look you,” you move, so that you’re right up against Rudy’s desk, your knees practically meshing with the wood. Adrenalin and fear run through you, as you suddenly make the decision to do this right since you’re here now. “You’re going to give us that meeting. If that’s the only thing that you can do for us then that’s what you’re going to do. If you have any second thoughts or any difficulty then perhaps you should remind yourself and whoever else of how previously hard its been to get rid of me. If we don’t hear that the meetings been made in a week from you then I’ll take the information to the press. I won’t involve Mycroft. I’ll go on my own”-

 

_“F/N!”_ Mycroft says in horror. 

 

“I am fed up,” you raise your voice, “Of people controlling me and of not being able to live my life how I want to. I would rather take the risk of dying with the information out there because if there’s some possibility of that then there must also be some chance, even if it’s a very slim one of me getting to live in a decently happy situation with the man who’s behind me.” You take a moment now, with your anger settling down, to look around at Mycroft. He’s staring at you with shining eyes that are full of disbelief and wonder, as if you’ve just offered him the seven-course meal of his dreams. Feeling vindicated you look back at Rudy. “And if the thought of me not dying and your nephew being with me disgusts you then you can go and choke on your cornflakes.” Leaving the two men spluttering you walk out of there. 

 

“Did you just tell my uncle to choke on his cornflakes?” Mycroft asks when he catches up with you. He pushes you into a little nook that’s in the corridor, setting you up against the wall. It takes a moment for you to realize that Mycroft’s more amused than angry about you saying such a thing. 

 

“Shut up.” You bat at his arm. 

 

A smile twists at his lips even more. “I don’t think my uncle even eats cornflakes. I fancy him as more of a _‘Weetabix’_ man myself.” 

 

“Well he’s got to get his day started off right.” You grin. 

 

The pair of you snigger like a couple of children, Mycroft’s hands on your waist and your head bowed towards his chest as a very stern and upright woman, her arms full of folders goes by, emitting a sniff. That just sets Mycroft and you off even more despite the dire circumstances that you now find yourselves in. You pat your hands against his chest as you try and calm yourself down. Finally you do so and your face becomes more serious. “I don’t trust him Mycroft. That’s why I want to go straight to the top. That’s why I pushed your idea in there even though I know that it’s dangerous.”

 

“Hey,” Mycroft says, rubbing at your arm soothingly, “He’s my uncle. I'm sure we can”-

 

“You’re telling me that you trust him a hundred per cent on this just because he’s family? You saw how he was in there. He hates me.” Mycroft shakes his head and you can’t bear to have him attempt to lie to you any more, so you push your head against his chest. “I just want all of this to stop,” you breathe. 

 

Mycroft nods understandingly, as his arms go around you. “That’s all I want too,” he assures you, and you feel glad for him in that moment. Right then he’s the only person that you can trust. You pull back, about to tell him that when he adds, “I do wish that you hadn’t made that threat in there though”- you think that he means the cereal thing for a moment and you smile, but then he says, “About going to the press?” with a quirk of his eyebrow. 

 

You sigh. “I only did that”- you try and lessen his disappointment with you. 

 

“What would I do without you?” he says in a sad, low voice. You look at him understandingly. He kisses you. 

 

*

 

You’re in court. The case of the defence has just concluded and now your head turns towards the jury. “After having heard all the evidence I find myself having to urge you to find the defendant, Sherlock Holmes, guilty of all that he has been charged with.” ‘No,’ a little voice says inside you and suddenly you realize that you’ve said the wrong thing. _‘No!’_ A ball of panic wells up inside you. Your body wriggles, but you are trapped there in your seat, with all the members of the jury looking at you, as if they are considering and taking on board what you have just told them. They file out, going off to make their decision, before any more words can leave your mouth. “No, I'm afraid that I’ve said the wrong thing,” you get out, but it is too late by then, the door is already slamming behind the last jury member. You look to the public gallery. Mycroft is looking at you despairingly as if to ask, ‘What have you just done?’ There are other people there that have never been in court before, there is Rudy, nodding at you as if he’d always known that you were going to betray his nephew in this way, his eyes set in a firm glimmer, there’s George, as young as he’d been when you’d first met and James and the Asian man and his wife, all staring at you, as if to say that you’ve done a good job. Your eyes go back to Mycroft and you wake with a shout, your body lurching up and jerking against your covers, which are wrapped so tightly around you it’s like you’ve tried to mummify yourself. 

 

“It’s all right.” You see long fingers come on the duvet by your chest. They remind you of spider’s legs and you wriggle again. You don’t like spiders any more than you like herons. You only stop when your eyes lift up to see a face. _Mycroft’s._ It’s Mycroft’s face. Your lips part. For a moment you’re struck by the absurdity of it all. The fact that the man you’d just dreamt was giving you a look of such sadness is right in front of you. You’re about to ask what he’s doing there. Then you remember how he’d gone back to his flat, before he’d arrived at yours quickly again with a packed bag. Remember how he’d said that he’d knew this might be overstepping, but he’d made up his mind and he wanted to stay with you for as long as it took to make sure that you were safe and that he’d even sleep on the settee if it came to it. He just couldn't bear the thought of you being alone in this flat when anything might happen to you. The memory of that, how sweet he’d been, slows down your heartbeat somewhat to a more steady pace. You slump back. Mycroft, deeming your mood safe, says, “You were having a bad dream. You kicked out at me, woke me up.” You open your mouth, about to apologize, but Mycroft raises a hand. “It’s fine. I’ve had enough of them myself over the years. Come. Let’s get you sorted.” He unravels the covers and you sit up a little to help him do so. Once they’re smoothed out again and you’re more comfortable he touches at your forehead with the back of his hand. “Hot,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “I’ll go and get you a drink.” You nod and he glances back at you as he leaves the room. When he returns and pushes the glass of water into your hand you take a trembling sip of it. “What was it about if you don’t mind me asking?” he questions when you’re taking a break from drinking, your breaths making the rim of the glass whistle. The sound echoes about the room like the wind in the lonely night. 

 

“We were in court. I was advising the jury to find Sherlock guilty.” Mycroft’s face pales and you can barely look at him. “The worst thing was that it was only then that I realized I’d said the wrong thing, but it was too late by that point. The jury were all walking out.” Tears spurt out of your eyes. Your fingers squeeze at the glass. 

 

Mycroft takes it from you and lays it down upon the bedside cabinet. “Shh.” He hurries back around to his side of the bed, clambers in and pulls your head close to his chest. “Come.” You close your eyes, a stream of silent tears running down your face. “Listen to me.” He begins to stroke at your hair. “I know this is difficult, but if you had to give that advice, if you had to send him to prison for a long time then I’d always know that you wouldn't want to. I would never turn against you because of it. I’d know that it wasn’t really you talking, just the system that we’re trapped in.” You know that he’s doing his best, but you know too that the image of you being the one to send his brother to prison is as troubling to him as it is to you. Know that he would not be so laid back about it if it were to happen in reality. That it would hurt him and it might even get to the stage where he’d resent you for doing so, where he might question whether you couldn't have done more to avoid the situation. “It would be my fault if that happened as much as anyone’s,” Mycroft says bravely, as if he knows what you’re thinking, “Sherlock’s too for doing all the silly things that he does. Making Mummy worry about him so.” You know that if you replaced the word ‘Mummy’ with the word ‘me’ then you’d be closer to the truth. 

 

“What have you dreamt about?” Mycroft looks at you. “You’d said that you’d had nightmares.” You pull away from him slightly, so that you can look into his eyes again. 

 

Mycroft’s hand goes to your hair and his fingers begin to stroke against it as he stares grimly at the wall. “They used to be about you,” he says as his fingers come to a rough stop. 

 

_“Me?”_ you exclaim. 

 

He looks at you. “I used to dream that you were stuck in Eurus’s cell and I couldn't get you out.” 

 

“Oh Mycroft.” You snuggle closer to him. 

 

“Silly really. I’d never let you go near that dreadful place.” He picks the strands of your hair apart from each other. 

 

He looks so haunted that it makes you say, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you of all of that.” 

 

“It’s okay,” he tells you, fingers stroking at your hair again. He lets out a heavy breath. “In any case it’s better that we focus on the present now, not go back to the past.” The pair of you sit there in silence for a moment, before his fingers pause again. “I know that my uncle was doing a very good impression of someone who is easily unlikable earlier, but he’s had difficulties in his life too”- 

 

“I know,” you interrupt, before you realize how harsh the words had come out and grimace. 

 

“No.” Mycroft’s hand swats at the air, before it comes to rest on the front of your hair again. “Not just that.” He clears his throat now and your mind suddenly goes back to that odd moment in the office earlier when you’d thought that you’d detected an undercurrent of something going on between Mycroft and his uncle. “This is something that I haven’t told you before.” Your ears prick up at that and you suddenly feel more awake. “I mean he’s a lot more like us than you probably think. Years of being in the job have made him tougher, hardened sure, but when he was younger I think he was a lot like how we were back in our training days.” His heart bursts with a sudden fondness. He remembers how you’d first peeked at each other over newspapers, how you’d thought his name strange, all those early mornings jogging together when the future had seemed odd, but inviting too as it stretched out before you, as long as the pavement ahead. “He fell in love too.” Your heart jumps. You remember the taxi ride back from the event where George had attempted to do what he had, Mycroft tidying you up, your drawing of him-

 

A sudden thought occurs to you. Before Mycroft can go on to say whatever he’d been about to you get out of bed and move onto your hands and knees, reaching beneath the bed. 

 

“What ever are you doing?” Mycroft asks you, but you shake your head a little and chew on your lip. 

 

Finally you grasp hold of what you’d wanted to and bring it out. It’s the drawing you’d done of him. You’ve put it in a clear folder. You sit down on the bed with it and put it in between you. 

 

“You kept it?” Mycroft asks in surprise. 

 

You nod. “I finished that sketchbook years ago. Got rid of most of it.” You pause, thinking how it had reminded you of so much pain. “I kept this.” The both of you look down upon it now. The yellow chalk is faded, but the pair of you still remember the joy that it had brought you both. “You can keep it if you want,” you tell him, nudging it towards him. 

 

He smiles and moves it to the bedside cabinet on his side. “This is probably me overstepping again, but if we were ever to get a home together…once this is all done?” You nod tentatively. It’s peculiar to think about such a time where all your current worries might not be of consequence to you any more. “Then I think we ought to put it up somewhere.” You smile, telling him with your eyes that you’d like that. He cradles your fingers with his. “Anyway, about my uncle”-his cheeks look a little pinker-“He was already employed when he fell in love. He’d figured out who he was and he was already finding it a little hard, juggling his work identity and his real one, but that struggle increased dramatically when he fell in love. The person he fell in love with adored him. They thought the moon and stars hung off his every word if you can believe such a thing.” Your lips quirk upward at that and you let out a soft breath. Your head tilts against Mycroft’s shoulder. He kisses at your hair and his arm goes behind you. You lean back against it. “He found it difficult I think to live up to that expectation. To properly open up to that person when he was so used to hiding who he was at work. Up until today I believed that it was that struggle that destroyed him. I even thought he’d had to break that person’s heart despite the fact he still loved them.” You suddenly understand more about why Mycroft might have been a bit reluctant to get involved with you. Yes, he’d had all the desires for his career, but there had been all this in the background too. “Now however I wonder if perhaps the government took on the belief that my uncle had told his lover something, wonder if they tortured”- he breaks off. His eyes widen suddenly, for suddenly he sees how things are going to unfold. Realizes that his uncle has probably betrayed him. “Up!” he tells you suddenly, chivvying you out of bed, “Up! Come on, get dressed.” Your mouth opens and you’re about to ask what on earth he thinks is going on for you to have to act with such urgency, but before you can there’s a scraping noise by the front door. Your hearts lurching Mycroft and you both look towards its direction. “Stay there.” Mycroft looks back at you. “Hide underneath the bed if you have to. Buy yourself some time.” A garbled squeak leaves your mouth now and he makes his way out of the room. You watch him anxiously. 

 

Dressed only in his black and grey boxer shorts he suddenly feels foolishly exposed. He should have been fully dressed this whole time and never has he more wished for a weapon in his hand, to be holding something secure and steady, but now all he has is himself and what little ability he has to protect you. You must sense some of his vulnerability for you take a step forwards. He looks over his shoulder at you. “Stay here F/N.”

 

“But”- you draw closer. 

 

“Stay here,” he says roughly in a voice that tells you not to question him, to only obey. He gestures a hand at you to keep back, whilst he goes further forwards himself. The cold air prickles at his legs, lifting every hair. 

 

You watch after him, feeling torn as he draws closer to the bedroom door. On the one hand every inch of your survival instincts are telling you to stay here and to do exactly as he says. Your fear makes you want to forget that this noise can even be heard at all. But on the other hand you have been trained as a MI6 officer and successfully completed that training. You are used to pushing down fear, to working through it. That is your boyfriend Mycroft, the man you love, slipping through the door, going closer to danger. That is the person you’ve always been a team with. You move forwards. Clad only in your white nightgown you scurry across to hide behind the door. Mycroft clearly hears for he pauses for a moment and looks around at you. You peep around the door when he’s still doing so. His eyes turn dark blue in fury with you for a moment, before something in his face becomes resigned. He should have known that you wouldn’t listen. He gestures that you should stay at that distance and simply play the role of back-up. Your facial muscles clenched you nod. Mycroft’s not sure if he believes you. When you’d done your missions together you’d often been keen to be up front and he’d be the one playing back-up to you. He has no choice but to trust you now however for that dreadful noise comes again. It is louder this time. Someone is definitely trying to get in, pick the lock. Mycroft goes closer to the door. 

 

Knowing that he is trying to go for an element of surprise through shortly opening the door for the assailant in an attempt to throw him or her off guard you frantically look around for anything that might help bring the attacker down. The best things that you can come up with are the large kitchen knives that hang down from a hook on the side of one of the raised cupboards that are near to the oven. _“Mycroft!”_ you hiss. Close to the door he looks around at you in annoyance. You gesture with your head towards the knives. 

 

Swallowing, for he doesn’t want to kill anyone, but at the same time he has an appreciation for the fact that the knife could be used to disable the attacker, he curves around, picking up a medium-sized knife that has a serrated blade just as there comes a rattling at the door. Turning around hastily he scurries in front of it once more, hair flopping in his hurry. At the same time as he does this you run from your cover to crouch down by the settee. You’ll be able to better protect him from this position. Mycroft looks around at you. Then, the knife held tightly in his clenched fist, his knuckles white, he flings the door open. It happens in an instant. There’s the sound of something being sprayed and before you can do anything more than open your mouth Mycroft falls backwards to the floor. He lands with a thud that reverberates through your heart and the knife that he’d been holding clatters to the floor. Panicked you duck your head and take cover for a moment, before you peek out again when you hear a groan. You see Mycroft trying to sit up, the movement of his back faltering as his hand goes to his bare stomach. Then you see a person who’s fully dressed in black, the slits of their eyes only visible in a balaclava, as they dart forwards. In their hand is a strip of pale fabric that they make to press against Mycroft’s mouth. You act in an instant, launching yourself over the settee-you can feel your legs protesting, its been so long since you’ve done anything like this. You grab the knife, whilst the sight of you distracts the attacker and dodge the assault of the pepper spray when he reacts. Swinging yourself around so that you’re in front of Mycroft, who’s frantically moaning as his mind panics about you and trying not to rub the pepper spray further into his eyes, you avoid another attack and twist the hand with the blade up, plunging it into the man’s stomach. Falling to the floor and both partly inside your flat and in the hallway outside the attacker’s gloved hands go to his wound. The red blood is already starting to be visible against the darkness of his clothes. Without any thought you drag him by the legs so that he’s inside fully and close the door securely. Feeling a surge of anger, not just with him, but for everything that you’ve been through over the years you kick him across the face, before you draw back up again. Still conscious he lets out a cry of pain, which reminds you that no matter how unlikable he’s a human being too and probably only the grunt of this operation. You can feel your body shaking from shock. Your hands and nightgown are splattered by the diagonal spray of blood. You look to Mycroft. “Are you okay?” 

 

He nods feebly, his breaths coming out in irregular spurts. “You shouldn't have done that,” he says, his face white, his hand clenching around some of the hair that he has on his chest as he stares at the sight of the bloodied attacker in fright. His vision is slowly returning and it’s bringing about a reality that is more horrifying than ever before. “It’s exactly what they’ll have wanted. They’ll have you up for murder.” 

 

“I-I know, but I wasn’t exactly going to let you get killed.” Your mouth feels like it’s being operated by someone else and you’ve got goose bumps all over, but, trying to stay calm you make to move across to the kitchen cupboards, so that you can get a first aid kit to help the attacker. If you act quickly then he should be all right and you can at least avoid this disaster. 

 

You’re halfway to your destination when it happens. When a crowd of people led by Richard and Rudy burst into the room. Two of their cohorts have Mycroft by his arms and on his feet in an instant. The two main men survey the scene grimly, before their eyes go to you. 

 

“I think you’d better come with us, don’t you?” Richard says. Your eyes go to the initial assailant who is still struggling for breath on the floor. “We’ll sort him out.” You doubt that, but find that you don’t suddenly care too much about him. You nod. 

 

Mycroft and you are allowed to get dressed, but under supervision-the men don’t even turn their backs, you have to do so to them-so there is no chance for you to communicate with one another. 

 

Then you are marched out to a fleet of black cars and taken to separate locations. 

 

*

 

When you wake the last thing that you remember is sitting down in one of the cars. You swing upward. You are on the floor somewhere. It’s hard to ascertain where because being in the large square room that you’re in is like being trapped inside a blank canvas and waiting in the hope that someone might paint you and fill your world with colour. Everywhere is white. It’s like being back in Russia again in the middle of a snowstorm. Although you see once you look more closely that the wall at the far end is grey. You think you see a black door. Somehow you are in your bloodied nightgown again. You realize that there is a black book by your side. Your hand nudges against it. You’re tempted to look inside it, but the logical part of you tells you that you should investigate the door. Your feet bare you stand. You make your way across. The floor is cold, firm and unforgiving. You come to a stop when you realize that there is a sheet of glass blocking your access to the door. Your heart sinks. You raise a hand to it. It splays flat. You press and push, but it does not bend, does not break underneath your touch. You feel like crying. Your shoulders even shake a little and a squeak escapes you, but you do not cry. With a bowed head you realize that there is only one option left. Turning slowly around you look at the book. You eye it for a moment, nervous about what it might contain. Do you really want to open it? But what else is there to do? At the very least it might provide you with some information that might help you move forward. Tugging your hand off where it’s still on the glass behind you, you make your way across. You sit down, almost in the exact spot where you’d woken and pull the book across to you. You soon realize that it’s not a book, but a photo album. _The_ photo album. The one that you used to punish yourself with. Letting out a breath you quickly scan through it, on the search for anything new. If they want to drag you down by making you look at photos of when you’d felt fat and worthless then you’re not intending to let them. But there’s not just photos of you in there. In the back, and after you’ve flicked through all the old ones there’s photos of Mycroft, and not from his childhood and when he’d been bigger too, but photos from now. He’s not smiling. In fact he’s not doing anything much at all because he’s dead and the photos-similar to the ones that had been collected as evidence for Sherlock’s court case-show all the bruises and cuts that he’d been gifted with both before and after his time of death. 

 

*

 

“I thought they’d got rid of you?” Mycroft says nonchalantly as he looks across at George. They’re in an interview room, deep in the MI6 building and Mycroft knows that this interview isn't about to adhere to the standard code of practice that is in place to keep both parties safe. There might be a tape recorder on the side of the desk that separates him and his old nemesis, but it hasn’t even been switched on yet. He stretches his legs out a little beneath the table. The grey suit jacket he’s wearing gives a crisp rustle. He’s not wearing a tie and his white shirt is open necked. The room is dark and hot. Only a thin ray of early morning light comes through from the small, rectangular window that is close to the ceiling. Mycroft can feel beads of sweat settling amongst his collarbone. 

 

“Oh, they did,” George says breezily. He’s in a dark suit and cream shirt. He looks older now, but is trying not to show it. Mycroft can see where he’s tried to dye his hair a deeper black to get rid of the grey. He’s had surgery to try and get rid of the bags beneath his eyes, but they still linger, as do the lines about his mouth. He is not weary now though, no matter how he might have been in the past. There is an air of satisfaction about him. Like a purring cat his vanity glows in the dim light. “They wanted someone independent”-

 

“Oh yes, because you’re certainly that aren't you George? You harbour no grudge against this organization for them getting rid of you early at all do you?” Mycroft cuts in waspishly. He knows that if you were there then you’d tell him to shut up. 

 

George’s eyes glimmer with something. His lips twitch. _Oh,_ he is enjoying this. “I investigate things that go wrong in organizations like this.” 

 

“Oh”-Mycroft places his hands on the table now and pushes back against his chair-“Let’s not pretend by any means that this is an official interview. You’ve been re-employed by MI6 in some capacity to carry out their dirty work. Perhaps I would have once wondered how they could do such a thing, but I don’t now. Not knowing how the organization works. There’s one official view that they try and project to the world and then there’s another: the truth.” 

 

George nods. “Now that we’re being honest with each other old boy then perhaps you won’t mind me spelling a few things out for you?” Mycroft doesn’t move. He just shows every sign of wanting to listen. George’s hands go to the manila folder that’s out in front of him. He pushes it across. “I want you to look at the photos that are enclosed.”

 

Mycroft’s chest feels tight. His eyes go to the folder. He is expecting to see pictures of his brother or you. Maybe even both if they’re feeling generous. He does not expect to see himself as is the case when his fingers finally get the courage to flick the folder open. It is a shock to see such a thing and a breath escapes him without being able to help it. Aware of his faux-pas his eyes glance up at George. The man looks satisfied. Leaning forwards Mycroft looks at the collection of photos properly now. There is his face, pale and still, eyes shut, purple bruise over one eyelid, a grey bruise on one cheek, lips dry and chapped. There is his mid-section, almost unrecognisable. Crushed and sunken in it is covered with a myriad of grey and purple bruises. He can make out the imprint of someone’s boot, so hard that they have apparently tried to stamp on the protection that covers his heart. Another shows his back covered in the lacerations of a whip and a whole host of cigarette burns as if an entire committee has used him as their ashtray. Having seen enough Mycroft pushes the folder back to George. 

 

“You don’t want to look any further? There are bruises on your legs too.”

 

“I am sure that you have been quite thorough,” Mycroft sniffs. 

 

“It seems that we've been adequate enough for someone close to you to believe that, that is the truth,” George comments, grimly satisfied. He picks up a TV remote that’s also on the desk and uses it to switch on the small television set that is on a stand at the bottom of the room. Mycroft looks over his shoulder at it. 

 

A live image of you appears on the screen. Mycroft’s heart gives a jolt of recognition, both at the sight of you and at the place where you appear to be. Sherrinford. It must be. The blank cell is astonishingly similar to Eurus’s. At the very least you are in a place that resembles it so starkly that he might as well be living through one of the old nightmares he’s had of you. His jaw clenches. He does not want to fall apart now. Yet like the violin his sister had used to teach his brother on the strings of his heart cannot help but feel like they are being plucked when he sees your body rocking as it hunches over something. Presumably copies of the photos he’s just seen. He hates the government with every fiber of his being in that moment. Hates anyone who could think that it’s a good idea to do this to you. 

 

Your head lifts up. “I WON’T TELL ANYONE! DO YOU HEAR ME? I WON’T TELL ANYONE SO YOU CAN STOP THIS! STOP ALL THIS NOW!” Your hair is bedraggled, your eyes shine with hurt, your face is damp with tears. You look madder and closer to being broken than he has ever seen you. 

 

If he was there then he’d have taken you in his arms, told you to get yourself together and done his best to protect you. He hates how little he’s been able to do so already. But he is not there and you believe that the one person who has understood you more than any other in this life has just died. You are devastated and grieving and he wants to tell you that it’s not real. Wants to make it so the white cell that resembles the bleak, unforgiving landscape of Russia is not where you are. But he cannot. All he can do is swallow, bow his head solemnly, feel an inside pain for the sorrow that you are going through right now and never ever let it out. He looks back at George. 

 

“All right. Dress her and take her through,” George speaks into a bug that’s attached to his jacket. 

 

Mycroft looks back at the screen. You are thrown the clothes that you’d dressed in whilst at the flat. Then, a spoken exchange happens between you and whoever had given them to you. 

 

Mycroft cannot hear it, but he does hear it when you shout, “WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH ME NOW? KILL ME TOO? Well good-good,” your voice softens, but it is still loud enough for Mycroft to hear and he hates it. He hates the way that your eyes look around searchingly. The way that your bottom lip trembles. He hates it even more when you say, “Because I don’t want to live in a world where Mycroft Holmes doesn’t exist. DO YOU HEAR ME? I DON’T WANT TO LIVE IN A WORLD WITHOUT HIM!” An agonizing amount of damage runs through all your tone. 

 

Your name nearly gets ripped from Mycroft’s lips. He wants to tell you to be quiet, to not give them what they want, but you are so wracked with grief, with the final blow that you think this organization has dealt you that you cannot think straight. Years of hurt are coming out in that one moment. He cannot accept this. He closes his eyes briefly, before he looks around again. George just stares at him and Mycroft can’t bear that either, so he looks back. 

 

You get dressed and get led out of your cell. The focus of the camera fades for a moment and the screen crackles, before it goes black. When it returns Mycroft sees a sight that makes his heart drop like a stone inside his chest and his fingers begin to curl up upon his lap, for you have been ushered into Eurus’s cell. He tries to keep calm, tries not to show the irregularity of his breathing, but a little voice panics inside him and every instinct hates what he’s seeing. _‘No, no, no, you cannot have been taken here. They cannot let Eurus manipulate you. Cannot let her break you.’_

 

His hands gripping onto his trousers he watches as Eurus, in her white gown, slowly turns around to you. He lets out a sharp breath as you do the exact same in Sherrinford. 

 

You feel the urge to step back and press further against the black clothed armed guards who had brought you down here as soon as those silvery blue eyes meet yours. You know instinctively that it must be Eurus. With her long black hair and those eyes-if Mycroft’s gazes are sometimes like being x-rayed and Sherlock’s eyes are obscure, then Eurus’s are the perfect mix of the two, but blended with something ethereal and haunting-who else can it be? Eurus steps towards you now, or rather hops, being remarkably light on her feet for someone whose only walking for years has consisted of the laps that she can do around her cell. 

 

“Have you come to play with me?” she asks in a loud, quavering tone that is full of need. Her head tilts. 

 

“You see F/N?” says a voice that you can’t place at once, but that a moment later you recognize as being James’s. You’ve only ever heard it once, at that party so long ago. It comes to you through a loudspeaker. 

 

Back in London Mycroft’s head turns to look at George. 

 

“I'm sure he’ll re-introduce himself properly to F/N after this is done,” George says maliciously. 

 

Mycroft, trying to ignore those implications, looks back at the screen. 

 

“Eurus,” James goes on, “Doesn't come across as being particularly dangerous does she? She just wants to play. Just wants to be given a purpose like Mycroft and you did.” You bite down upon your lip. You see Mycroft peering over the top of a newspaper at you in your mind. It hurts. It hurts to think that he’ll never do that again. That everything about Mycroft belongs in the past now as much as that memory does. Your body wobbles. All those hopes you’d had for your future….you see the drawing you’d done of him hanging on a white wall of a house that you haven’t bought yet. Your fingers twitch. The pain in your chest barely lets you breathe. Why had you met him again? Why had you told him everything when its led to this? You almost curl in on yourself now. Your head bows and your toes move upward in an attempt to meet it even in your standing position. You’d taken a foolish gamble and this is you now losing. “But unlike the both of you Eurus’s choice has been taken from her. Men have been allowed to make her decisions for her”-you fold your arms across your chest, biting down upon your lip-“Men have kept her stuck here as if this is some backward Victorian society where we just lock up all those we don’t understand and keep them in asylums. I don’t know how Mycroft phrased it when he told you about her F/N. Perhaps he made it sound like a cosy institution where her every need was met? Perhaps he made it sound like she had regular visitors? Perhaps he never described anything to you at all? Perhaps you didn't ask?” You hadn’t. You’d been so afraid of upsetting him, of pushing the issue too much that it would cause you to lose him. “But the truth is that Eurus isn't allowed any visitors.” Your body begins to shake all the more. “The truth is that she isn't given any entertainment either. Not even an instrument like the one she’d once loved. The one that she’d once used to connect with her younger brother.” A pause. “She’s not allowed to use her brain for good.” You tilt your head. “Someone who’s a genius like her, who’s incandescent, they should be utilized for the greater good don’t you think? Not hidden away here. Think of all that you would have missed out on if you hadn’t had that tap on the shoulder. If you hadn’t been brought into the service then you would never have realized all that you were capable of being would you? Never have realized just how strong you are. Shouldn't Eurus be given that same opportunity?” 

 

You swallow. What he’s said about you in the service is true…. _but,_ “Mycroft probably just wants to protect her,” you say, feeling that in your gut instinctively. You are not yet so used to Mycroft’s death that you use the past tense.

 

James laughs. “Mycroft didn't care for her. He was just happy that she was locked up, out of the way, so that he could try and be brilliant and carry on with his own life. If Mycroft cared so much F/N, about Eurus, about society in general, even about _you,_ then why did he not use Eurus to help stop the war that he was apparently so concerned about being carried out? She would have seen certain signs, that there can be no doubt of, and though we might still be in the position we are she could have limited it. Limited the amount of conflict, the spilt blood. If you don’t believe me then ask yourself this: if Mycroft loved you so much then why didn't he go after you all those years ago?” You let out a little breath now. “Why didn't he do better to find you? He had all that growing technology right at his fingertips. Are you really telling me that he couldn't have found you if he’d wanted to? No, you, just like his sister, the war and his reckless brother were just distractions. Distractions stopping Mycroft from being the person that he wanted to be. But he’s freed himself from all those shackles now.” Your heart seems to freeze in your chest at the words. You don’t understand. Your eyes drift further up the white wall, meandering as much as your thoughts. “Oh, Mycroft’s not dead F/N.” In spite of everything that you have heard you feel your spirits lift. “He planned all this to be rid of you.” Your bottom lip wobbles. “Forgive us for going along with it all, but we were curious to see just how much you cared about him. Curious to carry out this little experiment. How anyone could care so much for such a cold fish is beyond me. But Mycroft’s free now. Did you really think that an ambitious man like himself would be scurrying about in a minor position after years of toiling? Right at this very moment he’s walking around London. Not a care in the world. Glad to finally be rid of you. Oh, I'm sure it’ll be a little awkward for him, what with you being in a cell so close to Eurus, but Sherlock will probably be put in the middle of you both to break things up a bit. That will make things a little easier for him. His parents will probably disown him, but I'm sure he’ll get over it. He’ll be able to go back to the position he’s had for months now. It was rather a nuisance for him to have to call to a temporary halt the black cars he’s been swanning around in and to tell the security detail to hang back even more, whilst you were in the picture, but I'm sure he’ll think that its been worth it in the end. Now that he’s managed to get rid of you and the little brother that was threatening to upstage him with his antics.” Eurus lets out a little laugh and your eyes go back to her. She seems to be finding something amusing though you’re not sure that she fully understands what’s being said. Is she in this reality right now? “Oh, but forgive me F/N, I still haven’t said what job it is that Mycroft’s doing now. Perhaps the title of ‘British Government’ will ring a bell to you?” Your face pales. You have an image of the way that Mycroft had stared at the Asian man in the party in your head, there had been so much admiration there, so much longing to have what he had. 

 

Back in London the screen goes off suddenly. Mycroft feels a fear, so tight and sudden that it threatens to make him faint. He does not want you to continue to be so close to Eurus. Does not want for James’s words to perhaps continue when he can’t hear them even though he senses that the worst has already been said. But, beginning to get a sense of how things are going to be he wills himself to keep calm and turns back to George properly with a thumping heart. 

 

“You see how things are going to be?” 

 

“I think so,” Mycroft replies with a level of caution, “You want me to take on the position of the man who oversaw F/N’s departure from the service.” 

 

“Correct, otherwise”-George’s finger brushes against the edge of the table-“You’ll find yourself in a position where both your siblings and F/N will be in Sherrinford.” 

 

In a London cell Sherlock lies on the uncomfortable bed, hands behind his head, blue eyes like two pinpricks as he waits in the dark to be taken from there into a van to court. At Sherrinford you are returned to your cell, devastated and emotional, your feet dragging, mind torn and stretched to its limits, not knowing what the truth is any more. All you know is that in that moment it feels like your third big mistake was in trusting Mycroft so completely and that it seems like he’s been your biggest threat all along. 

 

“F/N and Sherlock will be brought there after being convicted of murder,” George goes on. “You won’t be able to keep all that from your parents and I think that the truth about Eurus will come out too. You’ll be shunned. Your family will despise you. You’ll be responsible for the downfall of the Holmes name and all those that you care about.” 

 

Mycroft’s heart is racing, but he tries to subdue it now by just finding out more information. “F/N will think that I’ll have planned both her and Sherlock’s convictions for murder?” 

 

George nods. “The man she stabbed is stable at the moment, but that could change.” Or _be_ changed, Mycroft thinks. The pepper spray removed too, his own presence in the flat covered up and it will look like you’d used unnecessary force against a man who carried no weapon. A bit more of a twist and it will be murder. 

 

“And if I take the position up?” 

 

“Then Eurus will still be in Sherrinford of course, but she’ll be the only one there. F/N will be released without the charge even having been brought against her and the jury in Sherlock’s case will magically be persuaded to find him, ‘Not Guilty.’” 

 

Mycroft bows his head. Phrased like that it really doesn’t sound as if there’s much of a choice. There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense to him. “Why do they want _me_ to take on the role? Considering what I know I would have thought that I’d be the last person that they’d want.” 

 

“On the contrary”-George leans back-“You could not be any more suited. They've watched you long enough to know that you’re good at linking things up to the bigger picture and _seeing_ that bigger picture. You also like to come up with solutions for things, so what can possibly be better than them giving you the job where such solutions can finally be implemented?” Mycroft feels a pull of something in his heart. He _would_ like to be in a position where he can finally rise to his full potential and do things. Not only that, but a job where, as has his intention been all along he could protect those he loves. _Finally_ protect you and give you what you deserve instead of being so helpless as he has been recently. “I’m also assuming that they figure that since it is not widely known about F/N telling you about the government’s agenda you will be at less risk from people trying to take advantage of what you know than the way the situation is currently. The old British Government meanwhile will be put in place as the new governor at Sherrinford”-

 

“How neat. He’ll be in the perfect place to keep an eye on Eurus, whilst being so far removed from anywhere himself that no doubt you believe the whole unfortunate matter with his wife will be buried?” George nods. “But I do wonder just how far it can be buried when I, if I took up the role, could ignite it at any time?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

 

George looks uncomfortable. “They trust you to be sensible.” He shrugs. “There would be no point in you inciting further instability when there’s enough of it as it is. You have a duty to your country to protect it and I think as much as they've hated F/N and you at times they've been impressed with the pair of you too. Like James said it’s about utilizing people for good. They’d rather keep you close. I think they've always wanted that. You pissing in the tent than pissing out. Will you take the job?” 

 

A thought strikes Mycroft. “Why would me taking this job keep F/N close?” George looks at him knowingly. “All right,” he accepts with a heavy breath. He can’t say that the job is going to make him happy, he has long lost his idealized view of the world and even though it sounds better he knows that it’s probably not going to be the answer to everything, but he’ll do anything to keep his family and you protected. It comes back to him now how when you’d been discussing Kelly Flinn he’d said that some situations can call for a lie, but only if it’s for the greater good. You hadn’t had the chance to reply then, and he might not have known the answer to what situations can be classed as appropriate ones, which is surely what you would have gone on to ask him next, but he does now and this is one of them. His happiness in this job will be a lie, but it will be worth it if taking it helps protect Sherlock, Eurus and you. As one George and he stand. 

 

George stares at him for a moment. “You got the job and the girl, even though she was only going to be a quick screw for me I have to say that I'm impressed.” 

 

Mycroft, knowing that George will only be the first of many unpleasant people that he encounters in his new job, shakes his hand with no more than a grimace of displeasure upon his face. “What is it that you do now by the way? That you _actually_ do? Not this weird cover story that you’ve been going by.” 

 

“Ah, that would be telling Holmes,” George says with a bit of a glint in his eye, “Perhaps your new position will help you to find out.” He winks and gives him a slap on the back. “Come on. Let’s go put everything right.” 

 

Mycroft had never thought that he’d hear such an expression of unity coming from George, but then it occurs to him that perhaps he’s someone worth sucking up to now and the thought makes him feel strange as well as pleased. His mind goes from the thought of George to you. He hopes that you will not have believed everything that you’ve heard today and that, once you’ve calmed down a bit, you might be able to move towards the future together. His heart feels uneasy though as he follows George out of the room. Even with the benefit of protecting Eurus and Sherlock he has basically accepted this new job for you and he does not think that the cover provided to his siblings will be enough to get him through the troubles of day-to-day life if you are not beside him. He will be miserable without you and now his heart longs to put things right. Will you show as much faith in him as he has in you over the years?

 

*

 

You are sitting on the floor of your cell, your legs splayed off to the side of you when Mycroft enters. 

 

He sees it. The fact that just by looking at him you can establish that he knows what you’ve been through in your time apart. That, and the fact that he’s dressed in a suit and looking perfectly unharmed makes you wonder for a moment if what you’d heard is true. He knows it does. Seeing George and another guard behind him does not make you think him any more innocent either and he suddenly inwardly curses himself. He should have told George not to follow him. You probably now think that George and he have been working together for years. He can tell by the way that your eyes flicker and then look down again that you are wondering if he has merely come here to break your heart and say goodbye, before he lets you rot in a cell. It hurts. That doubt you have of him. But he cannot blame you for it. Not after all you have been through. When nothing else has been sacred why should your trust in him be? 

 

He moves forwards. “F/N?” He raises a hand, presses it to the glass. He does not want to have the conversation that he knows he needs to have with you with other people present, but knows that he must begin to re-establish the trust between you if he is going to get what he wants. Knows that you must start seeing him as someone you can count on once more. 

 

You look at him mistrustfully through your hair for a moment. Then you clamber to your feet. You stare at him a little more, before you begin to make your way over. You stop a few feet from him and look at him with a bowed head and folded arms. “Do I owe you congratulations?” You look him in the eye. 

 

His heart aches in pain at the tone of your voice. You sound so hurt, so guarded, so battered by everything. The fresh and slightly nervous woman who had first walked into the MI6 building all those years ago has long gone, though every scar you’ve had along the way is ripped open and bleeding. He feels so afraid of the answer that he has to give you. “I-I do have a new job yes. I’ve only recently come into it.”

 

You just hear the first part and if he’d thought that you looked broken before then it is nothing to what you look like once he has said that. Your face, your whole being, seems to crumple. It is almost a surprise to him when you don’t just fall to the floor. Instead what you say is, _“Why?”_ in a cracked tone despite the fact that you’re trying to be strong. 

 

Knowing that he will fall apart himself if he tries to answer you here, he says, “Will you allow me to take you home and have a conversation with you?” 

 

“I get to go home then? Or is that just a short trip to get what I need to live the rest of my life here?” You are smarting with anger, but he cannot blame you. You believe that he has betrayed you. That he has been worse than a short-term spy who might have preyed on you during your old MI6 training days because he has deceived you for years. “Are you actually going to give me more than you’ve ever given your sister over the years?”

 

Oh God, his heart aches with it. It is even worse because it is true. He has let his sister down. He’s let _everyone_ down. He pushes closer against the glass, putting his hands either side of where his nose is pressed lightly against it. He thinks that he might cry or scream if this goes on any longer and he doesn’t want to do either one of those things. Surely you can see from his eyes how very sorry he is to ever have allowed you to be in a situation like this? “F/N, please, just come, come and say that you will allow me to take you home?” He waves his hand. “Come.” 

 

You look to the floor for a moment. Then you nod. 

 

*

 

You don’t talk on the helicopter ride. You don’t talk in the car, not even when it gets stuck in a traffic jam and you remain in the exact same spot for close to twenty-five minutes. The sun is up fully now and for many people it is just an ordinary day of going about their business. They have no idea of how the night has changed things so radically for Mycroft and you. Your fingers still and only occasionally shift upon your lap. Your face is heavy with thought and tears. You’ve realized something now. Realized how things must be no matter what the case truly is. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t talk either, but as soon as the pair of you get to yours and the door closes behind him it’s like everything that you’ve both been keeping in gets released. You let out a whoosh of breath that quickly turns into a wet sob and go across, stepping carefully over the dried blood that is still there from earlier, you perch on the edge of the settee, before you change your mind again and get up again. You go across to the counter where you lean forwards with your hands almost clawing across the surface, making these desperate wheezing noises that Mycroft has never heard a human make before. He watches you. Slowly he approaches. He stops though when you suddenly turn to him, his heart jumping to his throat. 

 

“Tell me something.” Your eyes are ablaze. Your breaths come out of you in a steady pant. “And be honest with me Mycroft. _Really_ honest.” You point your finger off to the side of you. Mycroft gulps. The look you’ve got on your face is reminding him of his mother. “Why did you do it? Did you get a kick out of it? A sadistic pleasure from picking on the girl you sensed was feeling really nervous on that first day of training? Was it fun for you to choose someone who really wanted it and to pretend that you had this really big connection with them? Was that the photo of that boy you showed me even you? Did you just get it from a magazine somewhere? Did it make you laugh when you saw that I’d done the drawing of you? Did you think ‘Got her?’ Were you just pretending to like me, to be in love with me this whole time and if you were then _why?_ What did I ever do to you? I just need you to answer that and then I want you to get the hell out, so that I can get on with my life if you’ll please just let me do that. I don’t want anything more to do with you, MI6, the British government, none of that crap. And I won’t say a word of what I know. I just want all this to be fucking over because I can’t do this any more.” Tears are streaming down your face by this point, causing your s/c skin to look marred, fractured. Your eyes are wide and bulging and you just look so… _exhausted_ by it all that Mycroft honestly believes in every word that you say. That you’ll be separated from each other in a few minutes time and this time there’ll be no going back. Just the very thought of it feels like a plaster being fiercely ripped off a wound that hasn’t yet healed and he hates it. He can’t do this again. Not without you. Not for good. Not without even some hope that you might re-unite one day. 

 

“F/N I swear”-he moves across to you, his head off to the side and slightly ducked as he looks searchingly into your eyes-“I swear that I never did that.” Seeing that he’s not getting through to you he grasps at your hands. When you try to pull free he holds on to them even tighter. He hates what the night has done to you both. But he knows that if he gives up now then he truly will be miserable for the rest of his life. “I know how bad it looks, how bad they have crafted it to look, believe me I can see that, but I swear to you that it is not true”-

 

“None of it?” 

 

_“No!”_

 

“So the bits about how your sister’s been allowed no visitors in the place where she’s locked up-the place where _I_ was locked up today by the way-been provided with no entertainment…the bits about her basically being left to rot there weren’t true?” 

 

Mycroft bows his head. A guilt that he has tried to keep pushed down for years rises properly now to the surface. “That was true.” 

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself. No wonder you told me after my nightmare earlier that you’d never let me go to that dreadful place. You just didn't want me to see what had become of her!” In a judgemental fashion you wrench your hands from his. You fold your arms so that he cannot take your hands again. 

 

“F/N please!” He looks at you with damp eyes and hands that flail upward hopelessly. _“Please!”_ He begs you to listen to him. “You know about the difficult situation.” Something in your eyes wavers. “About all of Eurus’s challenging behaviour. About what I dread she might be responsible for. She’s manipulative, that’s why she doesn’t have any visitors. I was frightened when I was shown footage of you being with her today. Frightened of what she might do to you. It was like having the nightmare that I told you about brought to life, but you were absolutely right the first time. The only reason I did not give her a violin or let her help in the fight against terrorism was because I wanted to protect her and protect anyone she might harm. Sometimes I do not know who she is more of a threat to.” Your lip wobbles. He grasps loosely onto your waist with his hands. A thought suddenly occurs to him and his eyes light up a little with this new chance of persuading you. “It is just like how you felt when you were so reluctant to get involved with Sherlock. I did not want another incident to occur with her when what had taken place had already been so terrible.”

 

Instead of warming you to him though his words only serve to repel you all the more. Fiercely you push him back, so that his hands slide off your waist and he is just left staring at you desperately, now a couple of steps away from you. “Don’t you dare!” 

 

“F/N please”-

 

“No, don’t you dare say that we’re similar after today,” you pant; your eyes shining with both fire and hurt. “I am nothing like you. If I had a sister I would have never done that to her.”

 

“How do you know?” Mycroft asks you, feeling angry now. “How can you possibly know until you’re put in that situation?” Your eyes burn even brighter with something that’s like loathing and Mycroft quickly gets back to trying to persuade you. “Please. Please, you must listen to me.” He waves his hands. “They have played a very good game here, but they are trying to ruin us. They tore us apart and they have brought us together again so they could finish this and now they have put the final nail in the coffin. They have tried to remind us of everything we hate about ourselves, brought up our insecurities to muddy the waters, to crush us and make sure that we never even feel the slightest urge to bring up what we know and risk them doing what they have to us again. To put us back into our place. You are exhausted I know, but we are so very nearly there.”

 

You shake your head. “No we’re not.” You stare at him incredulously. “You said when I first told you that you wouldn't let them harass me any more, you said that you’d get them off my back. It was like you were trying to free me, but now by taking this job you have just enslaved us.” Mycroft’s face pales. “Do you understand that? I will be just as trapped as I have always been if I stay with you now and that’s not what I want. Ever since I found out about what I did they have tried to kill me numerous times, broken my heart by making me leave you, put me under great stress with all their monitoring of me and when I saw that Sherlock was up for murder and begun to realize that was a set-up. You yourself have put me under great pressure by trying to get me to do something and by pushing me to tell you everything, and I still tried to do what was right. I went to see your fucking uncle again-the man whose clearly betrayed you now by the way, so don’t go looking at me like that-despite the fact that I don’t particularly like him no matter what he might have endured. Then I had to save you from being killed, before I thought they’d actually murdered you anyway, before learning after all of that, that I might not be able to trust you”-

 

“You can’t buy into that. All of their words”-

 

“Why not? I'm tired like you say and even I can see that they make sense.” Mycroft’s face grows even whiter. “Did you not stare at that man admiringly when you saw him at the party? The man whose job you have now taken? Did you not sound embarrassed once that you had a minor position still after all this time, when it was clear that my career surpassed yours? Have you not been ambitious all this time? Did you not express a desire for a security detail, fancy black cars like they were a badge that marked you out as something important? Did you not basically confess the other night that power turns you on?” Mycroft lets out a choked breath. “Well now I am telling you, whether you’ve already had this job for a while or not, that you can have it now! That’s what I'm doing. I'm freeing you up for it now, so that you don’t have to hide or be brought down by me, before you can trade me in for a better model. You can have all those fancy black cars! Have them all!” You slash a hand off to the side and stare at him with heated eyes, before you say in a more broken voice, “Congratulations Mycroft Holmes you’ve just got everything that you ever wanted.” 

 

“No, I haven’t,” he croaks because without you then this is all pointless. He bridges the gap between you and falls to his knees in a further attempt to persuade you. He feels a sharp shock in them from the landing, but even that doesn’t feel anywhere near as terrible as what you are threatening to do. “You have to listen to me. I accepted the job because I’ll have better control of things. I’ll actually be able to protect Sherlock, Eurus and you. I did it _for_ you, not for me. I know I won’t take much pleasure from being in their circles, but it will all be worth it if you stay with me now.” He takes your hands. 

 

You make a scoffing sound and turn your head away. “Why were you even with me in the first place?” you ask him in a soft voice. You think about that line of thought some more. “You’ve already expressed a love for women in power and I was just a nobody when we first met.” 

 

“I always knew that you were going to go far,” Mycroft says with damp eyes and a watery smile as he looks up at you. You shake your head. You might have believed that once, but now you don’t. It just stands out like everything that you should have noticed before and stopped trusting him because of. Seeing that he clutches at your hands all the tighter and says, “You can’t turn your back now. Can’t go against everything that I want.” 

 

You feel a prickle of anger. “What you want? What about what _I_ do?” Your hands slip free from his and your head jerks off to the side. “Oh, I get what this is. You just want me to be the docile housewife and put up with all your crap, well I won’t do it Mycroft. I won’t!” You fold your arms. 

 

“I would never want that,” Mycroft says, before he tries to appeal to you even further when he adds, “I’ll do more for Eurus.” He clutches onto your folded arms, his fingers curling around them. You peer down at him. “I won’t tell my family. How could I now after all this time? But I’ll go and see her. I’ll get her things if that is what it will take.” Once more you make a sound of discontent and Mycroft can tell that you think he should have been doing those things anyway, not just because you have the opinion that he should. “I’ll do my best, my very best to keep you out of that side of things if that is what you so wish. You won’t have to go to any balls, you won’t have to hear a single word about my work, but before I stick to that I just want to tell you that I wasn’t walking around free in London today. I was being interviewed by George and you should have seen him F/N, as soon as I took the job he started sucking up to me.” He looks up at you in a way that asks, ‘Can you believe it?’ as if you can just go back to joking around and being in love again. 

 

Shaking your head you feel appalled. “Mycroft that was the man who would have raped me. You telling me that the man has not changed should not be a cause of amusement to you.” 

 

Mycroft’s face falls. You take a step back. “I was just”-

 

“You know what? Maybe you should be in that job after all now if you’re getting along with George, if you seriously don’t realize how much that event is still capable of effecting me”-

 

“I'm sorry. I just thought”-

 

“That I would have been able to get over it after all these years?” you say harshly and Mycroft flinches. “Well that just makes me all the more convinced that this is one journey I shouldn't be taking with you. It’s bad enough that I'm going to be in debt to the security service because of the job that I’ll hopefully get to keep after everything”-

 

“You will.” Mycroft nods fervently. “I’ll make sure that you will.”

 

You look outraged. “I don’t want your handouts!” you snap and Mycroft really doesn’t know what to do for the best now. “I just want you to leave me alone from now on, so that I might be able to put everything behind me!” 

 

“F/N,” he says, still from where he’s crouched upon the floor. 

 

“Get up. You look foolish.” You sniff and turn your head away, trying to get a sense of decorum over yourself. 

 

“F/N”- Mycroft stands. 

 

“Please just go.” You look at him. 

 

“I can’t”- his voice cracks. He draws closer to you. “I’m not going to let us be torn apart again. I made a promise to you, w-with the tulips, a-and before that. The very first time that we-that we kissed”-he is shuddering now, his skin is blotchy and he is close to having a full on breakdown-“My heart pledged itself to you. That meant something to me. This ring”-he shows you his hand now, twisting the ring he’d gotten just before the Russia trip so long ago-“This ring”- his voice breaks again. “I want this ring to symbolize more than just my faith in you. In the future I want it to symbolize our marriage.”

 

You let out a choked breath and spin around. What he’s saying is too much. This is all too much. Your whole body is shaking. “Just get out.” 

 

“F/N”-

 

_“LEAVE!”_ You spin around, fists clenched, eyes somehow both furious and shining with hurt at the same time. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be with you any more! So just get the hell out of my life!” Mycroft opens his mouth. “Leave or I’ll call the police.” 

 

Mycroft lets out a soft breath and he finds himself nodding and leaving, both against his will. It is a queer thing-or perhaps a British thing-but even though he has been up against MI6 and the very heart of the British government itself and lost, the simple threat of the police is enough to get him running. The door is barely shut behind him when he hears you falling to the floor and crying. It is like that time you’d told him to piss off only so much worse. This time he feels like he’s been the one in the dock in your courtroom and you’ve just passed judgement on him. Sentenced him to a life without you. He looks over his shoulder, winces at the sound of your sobs and then forces himself away. He returns with tulips, the exact same shade as the ones that he’d bought you all those years ago and leaves them outside your door. He knocks, but you do not answer. He moves away again. 

 

Inside you are getting ready to go to work. That is the thing about being a judge, unless you are on your deathbed you feel a responsibility to go and not call in sick. It will be one of the hardest days you have ever worked, especially since you are doing Sherlock’s case still, but you have one consolation in the fact that Mycroft doesn’t turn up to watch that day. 

 

*

 

The world keeps on turning and when the jury pass a ‘Not Guilty,’ verdict on Sherlock two days later Mycroft is there in the public gallery to see it. To see you now as exhausted, your eyes dull and heavy, your body spent with emotion, you get up and leave the court, no doubt full of relief that this case is over and that you can finally start to move on from things. You have not looked at him once. You are probably fearful of him following you into your chambers, but he does not. He allows himself to linger outside the court-Sherlock has already gone off, not desiring, just like you it seems, to spend any time in his company-smoking a cigarette, hoping that he might feel your eyes on his back. A sharp word from you right now he feels would be better than nothing. But nothing is what he gets and when you still haven’t some out after forty-five minutes he moves on. 

 

*

 

He goes for a stroll that next early morning and sees you, almost slumped back on the bench that you used to rest on in between jogging. Hoping that it won’t provide the scene for the end of your story Mycroft approaches and goes to sit beside you. 

 

You turn your head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “What made you join me?” The light catches against your eyes. For a moment Mycroft is taken back and you might as well just be on another break again. You looking beautiful and sipping at your water, getting ready to challenge him once more, whilst he feels grateful for these quiet moments with you. But you do not quite look at him as you would have then and your face is half-shrouded with a heavy cloud. 

 

Still he replies, “It’s a free country,” remembering your own line from not so long ago. You bow your head, pleased that he has recalled such a thing, but things are different between you now. Trying not to make it be so he murmurs, “I love you.” He says it just as earnestly as when he first had, but he sees that it causes more pain than pleasure to you now and feels hurt because of it. 

 

With a strained, tense face you look properly out across the Thames, which the early morning light is dancing upon, making the water look more blue than grey. It seems to be a portal to the past to the both of you in that moment. Mycroft looks at it too. But then the ripples of those pleasant memories end once more because you say, “Then you have to let me go.” Your fists clenched upon your lap you look at him. “I mean it Mycroft.” Slowly he turns his eyes away from the river to look at you. Your eyes seem to contain deeper depths than the Thames in that moment. Every second you’ve had and everything you’ve been together and don’t seem able to be any more seem to be reflected there. “If you really love me as much as you say you do, if I really mean that much to you then you have to let me go now. You might be able to do this job, to carry on with everything that, that brings, but I can’t be involved in that world. Not any more. I'm sorry. I get that some of the stuff James said about you wasn’t true, that of course some of it was just an exaggeration, but some of it wasn’t and I can’t keep walking that line any more. That line between fact and fiction. It’s like a tightrope that I’ve always been wobbling on”- your voice catches and you look away for a moment. “I can’t do that any more.” You attempt to give him a brave half-smile as you look at him again. “The truth is I'm not as strong as you think. It wouldn't be fair for you not to have someone who can support you when you go to balls or parties or whatever, but more than that it wouldn't be fair for you not to have someone to talk to. That outlet.” You do that brave smile again and he knows that you’re thinking of the time when he’d first told you about Eurus. “But I can’t keep doing this. I hoped that maybe we could, that maybe we were on the verge of something better, that maybe we could get out of it after all. But what happened reminded me of just how much in their pockets we are always going to be, especially with you having this job. I can’t keep on worrying about when the next dark turn is coming, day in, day out. I told you,” your voice is so strained now that it nearly breaks, “I told you that I didn't want us to become the Asian man and his wife and that is exactly what we’re heading for if I don’t walk away from you right now.”

 

“But I love you.” That is all he can say. His brain can’t even contemplate a future that doesn’t have you in it. He’s worked so hard to get to a point where you might be together again. You both have and he can’t bear to contemplate that there might be still more work to do. 

 

“I know.” Your throat is tight. A couple of tears spill onto your cheeks and Mycroft wants to wipe them away because you should not be looking at him like that and crying. He knows that the act would not be appreciated however so he stays as he is. “I love you too, but”-you crouch before him now, taking his hands-“You have to let me go. You know what that means? You can’t come around and try and see me. You can’t leave tulips by my door. You can’t text. You can’t call.” Mycroft’s mouth droops. “You know what?” You squeeze at his hands tighter. “This is fine.” He looks at you disbelievingly. “No, really it is. We’re just going down different paths now. That happens sometimes in relationships.” _But not with us,_ Mycroft thinks. “I just need a fresh start now and I can’t do that with you. Not with you taking this job and it wouldn't be fair of me to ask you not to do it. I know how much you’ve wanted something like this no matter what you might say.” Mycroft opens his mouth to protest, before he closes it again because you are right. He _has_ wanted something better than what he had been doing, not really this though and not without you and in these circumstances where he’s had little choice, but to take it. Seeing the truth in his expression nonetheless you give him a watery smile and squeeze at his hands as if to say, _‘See? Even you know it’s right really.’_ He knows too because of these circumstances that it is not fair to try and drag you along on this journey if you don’t want to do it with him. A chink of something passes through his eyes at the realization. “There.” Your hand goes to his face and he pushes his cheek closer to it. His starched white collar rustles against his grey suit jacket. You give him a little smile in spite of all your pain and he thinks that might be it. Thinks that you might be about to pull back. But then you say, “I'm going to miss you,” in a way that is full of longing and fervency and sad truth, before you press your lips to his. 

 

He responds in an instant, his hand cupping at your cheek, the pads of his fingers soft as they rub against it, his other hand attempting to gather you to him. Your hair tumbles down across your face. The kiss is slow and desperate and reassuring all at once. Both of your eyes are shut. Mycroft only opens his once you start to pull away. _“F/N,”_ he murmurs, as if to ask how you can ever leave him? But you’re doing that brave half-smile thing again and getting to your feet. 

 

“I'm sorry about this,” you say, brushing your hair back, “But things will get better for you.” You put a hand on his shoulder now. “I know they will.” You give it a comforting squeeze, before you walk away. He can tell from the soft sounds that you make and the way that your shoulders wobble that you’ve already begun to cry. But he knows in that instant that you will never ever forgive him if he follows you now. Whatever happens in the future you need your space. 

 

He looks back at the water, twisting the ring he’d got just before Russia around his finger. In that moment he vows, “I will never stop loving you.” 

 

*

 

“George!” Mycroft says in surprise as the man enters his office that following Friday, “What are you doing here?” 

 

“Thought I’d come and see how your new office looks.” George gestures with wide arms. He gazes around, taking in the portrait of the Queen that’s behind Mycroft, the filing cabinets either side of an impressive oak desk, which contains a paperweight, an in and out tray and a vast array of papers littered across it. “Hmm,” he puts a finger to his lips, “Not bad is it Holmes? Bit dark”-Mycroft would have to agree with him on that point. Just like his uncle’s office this one has no windows, but he is grateful for the privacy that it provides-“Still, worth taking the job to get this I should bet?” He takes a seat in front of Mycroft’s desk without being invited and leans back, making himself at home. He reaches across to take the paperweight in his hands and puts his feet up, much to Mycroft’s annoyance. “You’ll be making a pretty penny too I should imagine for that girl of yours. How is she?” he asks in a voice that is both light and sly, passing the paperweight between his hands. Mycroft can feel something changing on his face and he looks down. _“No.”_ George’s feet slip off the edge of Mycroft’s desk and Mycroft finds himself looking at him in spite of himself. “She never left you?” Mycroft’s eyes going back to his paperwork is all the answer that George needs. “Sorry old boy.” He stands now and carefully replaces the paperweight back upon the desk. “Still,” George comes around now and claps him on the shoulder, “Plenty more fish in the sea.” ‘None quite like you though,’ Mycroft thinks. 

 

He clears his throat. “Perhaps you could go now? I'm very busy with my new job and all.” 

 

“Yes. All right.” George makes his way to the door. Nearly there he stops and looks around at Mycroft again. “One more thing. Did you find out what I do?”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft leans back now. “You’re nothing more than a glorified health and safety administrator.”

 

George’s lips quirk upward and for a moment they are united. Neither of their lives have gone the way that they’d wanted them to and the memories of themselves as fresh faced hopefuls is one of the rare things that can put a genuine smile on their faces these days. Giving him one final nod George makes his departure. 

 

Mycroft wishes, as soon as George has left that he could tell you about the exchange that they’d just had. There are a lot of things he’s stored up that he’d like to either say or do with you. He’d like to tell you about the comfort of his office chair, the look of his office. Like to kiss you in front of the Queen’s portrait and properly christen his new desk. Like to tell you the fact that a new cake shop has opened around the corner. Like to meet you there on a break from work. His hand hovers over his mobile for a moment. But then he remembers how you’d accused him of being too friendly with George before when he wasn’t. It’s just that he’s learnt to handle him better now and he wishes he could make you see that. It’s not that a part of him still doesn’t despise the man. It’s just the fact that unfortunately as they grow older they seem to be getting more things in common with one another. He remembers too that you’d told him he has to leave you be, let you get on with your life. He sighs. He feels like he has been crowned King, but with you not here to be his Queen then everything is pointless and a drag. His finger gets caught against a paper-clip and he ends up flinging it irritably off his desk, but not before it has loosened out of shape and pricked at his finger. He sighs again. Nothing is going right these days. 

 

“Mycroft?” a familiar voice comes and Mycroft looks up. Something hardens inside him when he sees that his uncle is peeking around the door and his stomach burns with anger. They've been avoiding each other until now, but it looks like they won’t be doing so any more. Rudy comes in properly, closing the door behind him. Mycroft notices that the man looks tired, his eyes are dull, face strained and something about him, perhaps the way that his hands start to fidget make him look unusually uncertain in his presence. “I know that”-

 

“I think early retirement would be a good option for you soon uncle. I’ll have to get the papers to you.” 

 

_“Mycroft.”_ Rudy looks shocked. “Surely you cannot blame me for getting you into this career in the first place? You wanted it did you not? A chance to prove yourself?”

 

Mycroft bows his head in acknowledgement. “It’s true that I wanted an opportunity, and no, I do not blame you for something that stretches back years. Perhaps I will learn to grow softer in time about what has just happened too, but I doubt it.” There is a bite to his tone now and it makes Rudy sway back a little, as if Mycroft is a dog, which might attack him. “I know it was a situation that you did not have much choice over, much… _control,_ but as it stands I have lost someone who is very important to me because of events that you were involved in. I'm sure you can understand how that feels.” He raises his eyes to look at his uncle challengingly.

 

Rudy sighs, knowing that his nephew has got him there. “They believed that my tongue had been loose with information,” he says, being honest at last. “It hadn’t been, but for some reason they got that idea into their heads and couldn't get it out again. Perhaps the fact that I was dating a man made them hang onto it all the tighter?” He gives Mycroft a rueful grimace. Mycroft’s face is serious. “In any case,” Rudy continues, “They came to us in the dead of night, as they did with F/N and you, and pulled us out of bed. They took us away from each other and tortured him, whilst they questioned me. I had no idea what was going on with him or why they were so adamant to believe what they did. It wasn’t anything as big as what F//N and you have been caught up in, just a few opinions on another country’s attitude towards foreign policy. I think it was more the fact that I was different and they wanted me to see that I could not give my love to the man that I wanted. Anyway”-he shrugs and scrapes both hands across his face-“The first thing I knew about his torture was when they showed me a lock of his bloodied hair in the interview. They said they’d do the same to me if I did not confess, so I did. I don’t know if they killed him, but I never saw him again.” He looks at Mycroft properly. “I am very sorry for what you are going through Mycroft.” 

 

Mycroft nods steadily, before he looks down again. “I shall get those papers to you Uncle.” 

 

Rudy leaves, knowing that Mycroft is on the verge of tears. 

 

*

 

Years pass. Despite the fact that Sherlock had pretended to be quite blasé to all of Mycroft’s heated words the next time his brother had seen him after walking free from court, words that said he needs to get clean because something like that cannot be allowed to happen again and the fact that he’d just seemed to think Mycroft cared only for keeping up appearances in his new job-that had stung and reminded Mycroft of your words-Sherlock manages to straighten out a bit after all when he becomes a consulting-detective and meets John Watson, an Army doctor, who he starts solving cases with. Together the two form an unstoppable bond, one that’s not even prevented by Sherlock’s supposed death-he returns after two years-and John getting married to Mary Morstan. Mycroft remains protective of his brother and helps-or interferes as Sherlock is quite fond of putting it-whenever he feels that it is needed. In between all these other occurrences Eurus stays at Sherrinford, but Mycroft gives her a violin one Christmas, his thoughts very much on you still and on always trying to do things, which you’d approve of to the best of his ability. Foolishly, in trying to do this he grants Eurus a visitor-James Moriarty-that afterwards he realizes you would have strongly disapproved of, but that is another story entirely. He and you do not speak. In the early days-admittedly months-he’d looked out for you on CCTV, but now more accepting of the fact that you are lost to him, but no more happier about it, he does not look out for you. He does still wear his ring though, and with the memory of how he’d wished to feel more secure on the night the government had come for him and you, he starts carrying both a gun and sword that are concealed inside an umbrella. But then things happen in a quick succession. Sherlock actually does murder someone-albeit someone who had thoroughly deserved it-and Mycroft has to cover it up, Mary gets killed, Lady Smallwood or Marie or Alicia, as is actually her real name, who he has continued to work alongside for years and who has recently lost her husband, gives him her personal number and asks him out for a drink, and his family learn the shocking truth about Eurus at last. 

 

It is 2015 and the weekend after this latest incident at Sherrinford you, now living in a different flat close to the outskirts of London, get a visitor from Lady Smallwood, but whom you know as Alicia. She’d come to see you after the Russia incident and when you’d been transitioning into your new role as a judge and has been kind to you in the past of course. You are still a judge, whether through Mycroft’s influence or just because it had been so clear that what had happened had broken you and made you no longer a threat, you don’t know. Whatever the case you have not seen Elsa Clark since and what she’d found out about you clearly hasn’t come out. Still, in the case of Alicia, you’d stopped contacting her, just as you had with everyone connected to that time after the first Sherrinford incident, and though you’d been on the verge of sending her a condolence card on the death of her husband, just as you had been with Mycroft on the apparent death of Sherlock-learning that Sherlock was alive and thinking that Mycroft must have known about it had put you off him again. What would he have done had you been in a relationship with him? Deceived you too?-but you’d stopped yourself. It is a shock to see her outside your flat now. 

 

“F/N.” She touches at your shoulder briefly. “It’s good to see you again. May I come inside?” Swallowing and wishing that your hair fell half as elegantly as hers upon your shoulders you nod. “I'm not disturbing anything?” she asks a little severely as you gather around the kitchenette. You shake your head. You’d just been starting to read up on a case and feel glad that you hadn’t been doing anything else. You still feel a little intimidated by her. It’s like being back in training again.

 

“No, it’s fine.” You find your voice and begin to make the tea. “I-I wanted to send you a card before, your husband”-you wave a hand-“I'm very sorry.”

 

She nods. She doesn’t speak again until you’re sat around the circular kitchen table together, cups of tea warming your hands. “Before I start properly I wanted to ask: how have you been F/N?” She eyes you carefully. 

 

You imagine saying, _‘Oh you know how it is. I’ve just been working myself to death, so that I don’t have to think about my lacklustre personal life and how my parents probably hate me and think that I'm a complete and utter failure because I haven’t given them any grandchildren and now it’s too late to.’_ But what you really say is a breezy, “Oh um, fine,” before you sip at your tea hurriedly. “You?” 

 

“Ye-es,” she says, stretching the word out. She takes a drink of her own tea, before she lowers her cup down to the table. “I saw Mycroft the other day.” You don’t want to know that. You look at your cup. The swirling brown liquid does not give anything to distract you from your current situation. “I see him most weeks through work actually.” 

 

_“Great,”_ you say with a bit of an edge to your tone, wondering where she’s going with this. Her sharp blue eyes and the thoughts that you cannot fathom that are going on in her mind make you bite at your lip and look down again. 

 

“I asked him out for a drink a while ago.” Your head goes shooting back up. “He’s been kind to me after the death of my husband and I was feeling lonely.” You don’t want to know this, about any sordid meetings they might have had, any acts of comfort he might have given her, but it’s like your ears can’t stop listening and your eyes can’t stop looking at her. “Also, since he doesn’t have anyone else…” Your hands curl up upon your lap. They are hidden to her, but you sense that she knows how you’re feeling because something glints suddenly in her eye. “F/N, we've known each other on and off for a long time haven’t we? It still touches a nerve doesn’t it? That time?” You nod. You still have the odd flare up about things occasionally. The last time you’d had a big one was in January that year when it had been revealed that the report from the Chilcot inquiry into the Iraq war was going to be delayed until after the General Election. Even now when you’re into autumn it is yet to be published and you can see it being delayed again or some other such excuse being found. How many times does the truth have to be covered up, before it’s finally found out? On the whole though you’re calmer now, but then you’ve had to be. What choice have you had but to settle into your steady routine and job? Sometimes you still dream about that time though and wonder what might have happened with Mycroft and you had you stayed with him. It makes you feel sad when you do so. Sad when you wake. Sad when you think. Your fingers prickle as if even they bear the weight of it all and you have to try and distract yourself-hence the overworking-or you’d just end up crying about it all again. “He’s affected by it too, still I mean.” 

 

You’re not sure if you believe that. “He’s got you.” 

 

“We have a deep friendship…that’s true.” She looks thoughtful now. “I admit that when I first invited him for a drink it was because of how comfortable I feel around him and our shared loneliness, as well as a want to see if there might be something more there. But then I went home and I thought about it more and my spirits started to rise again as they are wont to do when I’ve been down and I wondered something. Would he even look at me in that way because after all these years he still wears the ring? You remember the ones I gave to you both, before you went to Russia?” You nod. You couldn't forget that. In fact despite all you’d said about moving on and fresh starts you’ve found it extremely hard to. “I didn't think much more of it. I thought that whether I explored the romantic side of our relationship or not it would be good to have a drink with a close friend. We spoke, but we did not make immediate plans to go out for a drink. I think he was a bit tentative about stepping further into this realm too.” You remember now all those moments of uncertainty Mycroft had, had with you and it makes an aching fondness grow inside your chest. “Then one night he called me and we met up. He was extremely upset F/N.” You shift your position, feeling uncomfortable now. She’s looking at you as if Mycroft’s hurt had, had something to do with you. But how could it have when you haven’t even seen each other for years? “There had been another incident at Sherrinford that day and it had resulted in his family finding out about Eurus.” You swallow. It is strange, or perhaps not at all really, that after all this time your heart can still flutter about in the cavern of your chest like a trapped moth with worry for Mycroft. “She’d really put Mycroft and Sherlock through some horrific things and you remember Mycroft’s predecessor?” You nod. “Well he was killed during the incident. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he’d been the governor of Sherrinford and Eurus had been manipulating him for quite some time. Mycroft was asked to kill him, but did not. In the end the man killed himself. Eurus killed his wife. Everything that Mycroft endured that day was traumatic enough I should imagine, but I think that one of the things that amplified that even more was the fact that it brought memories of the first incident and all the ones he’d been trying to keep down, flowing freely again once more. I knew then that he was not looking at me in that way because he was still too busy looking past me at where you were. I realized then that I could not embark on a romantic relationship with him. Oddly it was somewhat of a relief to me. My late husband and I disagreed and agreed upon many things, but I'm honestly not sure I could go through all the ups and downs that a relationship like that brings again. It was a relief too, to know that I wasn’t about to risk the deep friendship and respect I have for Mycroft. That I knew then that it wouldn't be thrown away because of one act of loneliness. A relief to know that I will always be able to call him a dear friend. I think however that you, as the person who Mycroft is still looking at, should try and breach onto more romantic territory with him again. When you first left I could see how quiet and thoughtful it made Mycroft, but I thought he would bounce back from it in time. I regret to say though that it has been more of a grieving process for him, and I think it would not be so far-fetched to say that the same can be said of you, only neither of you are dead F/N. You still have a chance for happiness and I think if there are unresolved feelings between you, even after all this time, _especially_ after all this time, then you have every duty to try and get some sort of conclusion, no matter what it might be. You owe each other that. Owe yourselves that respect. Would you consider coming with me on an outing this week?” You tilt your head. Your heart jumps unevenly inside your chest. “I have agreed to meet Mycroft in a bar near by that I have been assured has a ‘pleasant ambience’ to it.” Her lip twitches and yours very nearly does the same as you imagine Mycroft saying those words. You feel almost like crying. How much you’ve missed him! His company and every inch of the way that he expresses himself. “I would very much appreciate it if you came with me to speak with him again.” 

 

“I don’t know.” You move uncomfortably. Your hands go to the table and fidget with your cup, before they rest flat. “He thinks that he’s meeting you doesn’t he? I wouldn't want to spoil your time together.” _You’re the one whose been there for him. Not me. Why do I deserve this chance now?_

 

“F/N,” Alicia puts her hand over yours seriously, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than if I could make two people, one of whom is a dear friend and one of whom who I sincerely hope will allow me back into her life, happy again. Even if I am not destined to have another romance during my lifetime then just knowing that I have played a small part in giving others that would make me very pleased and I would love nothing more than to be able to tease Mycroft relentlessly about you.” You smile at that. “I should have done so far more all those years ago when I could see the way that you looked at one another.” You stare at her now. She’d never joked with you about Mycroft. Had she said something to him? “I mentioned something about him getting distracted when he did that exercise in following you discreetly.” Your smile grows. You remember that. That had been one of the lighter moments when the mornings were full of jogging, orange juice, tangled hands and kisses by the bench. “Will you come with me then?” Again you feel unsure. “F/N you must know what type of man he is? It cannot be that, that’s holding you back surely? He’s one of those people who would never mean to do you harm. You could trust him then. You can trust him again. Surely you know that despite everything that was said? That when it comes down to it he’s a good man who would be good for you?” Tentatively you nod. “Then surely you can find it in your heart to trust him again?” Alicia says, before she looks down. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly against your hand and you sense that she’s on the verge of sharing something important with you, which you appreciate. “When I lost my husband, and I know it sounds silly and cliché and God forbid that women like us ever are that”-you smile-“But it made me realize that we should have just done all those things that we wanted to, not fretted about things that don’t matter and enjoyed the simple pleasures in life. That’s what made me in the end be a bit more forwards with Mycroft and why I am now encouraging you to do the same. You will regret it believe me if you keep letting the time go by and he and you never re-unite. Regret not taking the chance when it is all yours for the taking now.”

 

When she puts it like that you have to admit that meeting up with Mycroft again seems like the logical thing to do, but you have to admit, “I'm scared.” You speak to your joined hands, before you look back at her again. “I know it sounds silly, but I left to protect myself from the nature of everything that we’d been put through. If I go back and see him again now then what’s really changed? We've got older yes, but he’s still so involved in that side of things. What would be different now? Wouldn't that situation just happen again? I don’t want to put either of us through that. Not again.” You look away. 

 

“It is all very well wanting to protect yourself as long as you can still find happiness another way. I suspect however that you have not.” Here Alicia gives you a look that is both wise and severe. 

 

You swallow. You can see why Mycroft has become such good friends with her. She listens and gives advice and she understands. Nothing has to be explained to her because she knows it all. She knows your history together, the difficulties of the job and what it is to live with such loss. But can you be like her? Can you ever be enough? “I'm not sure if I could just walk back into those complications again.” She looks at you patiently. “You seem to think that I'm a strong woman”-

 

“Oh God, ‘strong woman,’ how I hate that term.” She leans back now. Her hand slides against yours, before it comes to rest on top of it more securely. Your lips twitch in spite of yourself. “Every man and woman is an individual. Neither strong nor weak. It is society that has classed us into these terms of being ‘weak’ and ‘strong.’ Society who deems that a man in particular is weak if he shows emotions and that a woman is backward for wanting a steady man by her side and for not striking out on her own. When I look at Mycroft and see the emotions that play in his eyes as he twists that ring on his finger I do not think of him as being weak. I think of him as having depth, of being someone who cares, which I can only see as being a good trait. Similarly when I look at you and see that fear in your eyes I can only feel a sense of pride for you because you would not have that fear there if you weren’t seriously considering seeing Mycroft again and having things in your past brought up in the first place. Whether you come with me on Tuesday or not you are brave for getting this far. I cannot ask any more of you than for you to be yourself. I can only try and guide you, as I did in some of your training all those years ago and let you make the decision as to what is right for you. I hope that you do not think I'm intruding by coming here and saying these things. I just couldn't leave things as they were if there was a chance that I could help in some way.” 

 

Something shifts inside you at that. You know that it might be a mistake, but what she has said has made you trust her. “All right.” You nod. “I’ll come with you.”


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We return where we started. Can things work out between Mycroft and you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as ever for all of your support. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and find it to be a fitting ending. :)

You are nervous as you continue to watch Alicia and Mycroft by the bar. You do not know what they are saying, but you can see that it’s having an effect on Mycroft. Once at ease he now looks tense. Slightly hunched over, whilst sitting on his stool he partly rests on the bar sideways, one hand on his knee, fisting at the grey fabric of his suit, the other clenched around his drink. Scotch you think as you see the slight amber edge to the portion of the glass that you’re capable of viewing from this angle. Alicia’s hand is partly curled around the stem of her wine glass. She’s leaning back slightly as she observes him. You trust her to get him out of whatever slump he’s got himself into, before she re-introduces you to him again. 

 

“It doesn’t make you weak because you feel something,” she says in a tone that is both kind and reprimanding. Mycroft has to smile because of it, but then he grows more serious again. 

 

“I know,” he says dully, still contemplating his drink. He shifts his position on his stool. “I’d just rather”- he looks at her. 

 

“Rather not think of things like that again I know. But I think it might help you to. Have you ever thought of getting back in touch with F/N?” 

 

“There’d be no point in doing so.” He shrugs, sitting a little more upright now. He’s often thought about finding you. About trying to send a text and seeing if you’ve still got the same number. But something has always stopped him. It is enough that you’d rejected him in the first place. He is not sure that he could cope with you doing so again. His hand tightens around his glass. “She made it quite clear that”-

 

“Maybe she’s changed her mind.” Alicia’s eyes slide to you and she beckons you forwards. 

 

Mycroft, full of confusion, looks over his shoulder to see who on earth she’s gesturing to. His expression changes when he sees you standing there, looking a bit older now, your fingers playing a little with your h/c hair ponytail that’s over your shoulder in nerves as your e/c eyes stare at him. Their colour seems more faded now. You are aching from everything still or perhaps it is just the act of seeing him again that is doing it. But they seem to re-gain some of their spark as he continues to look and the corner of your mouth twitches with something firm as if to say, ‘Here I am.’ Mycroft is not sure what to do with such knowledge. He looks back at Alicia. “I thought I was just meeting with you,” he says, his tone on the verge of rumbling, “Did the two of you plan this together? Have you been meeting up this entire time?” He points a finger down. 

 

Alicia has seen this behaviour from him before. Thrown and afraid by the sudden change Mycroft is about to get very frustrated indeed if she does not diffuse him. “We haven’t been meeting up. I only saw F/N this past weekend, but please talk to her,” she urges him, “I only did it for your happiness and so that you might get some closure.” He looks back at you and then at Alicia once more. She knows him well enough by now to know that he’s asking her if she’ll be all right. “I’ve got some papers to catch up on.” She does a leisurely stretch with her arms and tries not to think how she _is_ actually slightly jealous of this new voyage that Mycroft and you might be setting out on. 

 

He knows her too well too. He kisses her on the cheek, a soft brush of his lips against her pale skin. “Another time then?” he asks as he pulls back, his hand on her shoulder. 

 

“That would be nice.” She nods, slides off her stool, gives you a quick smile and pat on your shoulder and makes her departure. 

 

It is a slow turn that Mycroft does as he looks to you. “Come.” He wants to take control again and knowing that it will make things easier you give him a sharp nod of your head. “Not in here.” 

 

You follow his brisk stride, though you don’t swerve around obstacles quite as efficiently as he does, and out onto the pavement as the last light of day begins to make its presence known. You move to your favourite bench-the one that you’d taken a rest on during your jogging all those years ago and the place you’d last seen him at. It seems rather fitting to say hello again to him here. You face each other once you reach it, looking at one another in turn. He takes in the slightly thinner quality to your skin, your slightly faded h/c hair, which blows slightly by the side of your face now in the breeze and your e/c eyes, which just about manage to hold his eye contact nervously. You take in the weary lines beneath his pale blue eyes, the thin lips which quirk slightly, before they dip again as if they are not sure whether to believe that you are there in front of him and of course the ring that he has on his finger. Your hand touches at it slightly, lifting it from beneath. Then you’re letting out a whoosh of breath and somehow you’re in his arms and he’s peering down at you as if he can’t believe this is happening either and bending and the bump of your chin is just about resting upon his shoulder. You close your eyes. His shut too. They open again when you pull back from him. 

 

Knowing you have to explain somewhat you take his hand and lead him back to sit on the bench. You do so companionably, your knees turned in towards one another and your hand still cradling his. You take a deep breath and look out across the Thames for a moment, before you look back at him once more. You feel like you’ve been rehearsing the words you’re about to say inside your head for years, even before Alicia had come to you because its always been Mycroft and F/N and strangely now that this moment is upon you again it feels like it was inevitable. Just like before you’ve managed to find each other. “I’ve been seeing a therapist.” Mycroft looks at you with raised eyebrows and in some concern and you feel like you didn't mean to blurt out the words so suddenly. You chew upon your lip. The hand of his that is not covered by yours goes to your knee, giving you support. You find that you both like it there, and, that after all these years it makes you feel a little nervous too. To be on the verge of opening yourself up again and not knowing how it will go. The hand cradling his touches and caresses it apprehensively. “I think its helped, well, actually I know it has and she explained, that is my therapist explained”- you swallow nervously. Mycroft’s hand moves from your knee to your hand. He strokes at your skin with his thumb and it sends your heart shuddering. He’s trying to help, but you feel like he’s just contributing to the short-circuiting of your mind and suddenly you feel a lot younger than the age you actually are. “She explained that I left you because I was trying to protect myself. I’d let all my feelings of hurt grow over the years until I just couldn't take them any more. My natural response was to withdraw from as much as I could and put a wall around myself. That way no one would be able to hurt me ever again. She said that if I recognized when I was starting to get annoyed or really down about something then I’d be able to deal with my problems bit by bit instead of letting it get to a time when I reacted so severely. That it would be healthier to deal with stuff in that way.” 

 

“I'm glad its helped.” 

 

“It has.” You nod. “But just because I was able to reflect on things and cope with them better it-well-it hasn’t stopped me from missing you Mycroft.” 

 

He lets out a breath and you worry that you’ve gone too far, too soon. Perhaps you should have just asked him to be friends again first? But then he says, “You were wrong you know?” He looks out across the water, before he looks back at you again. “Things haven’t got better,” and you nod, telling him that it has been the same for you and feeling hopeful that you’re on the right track after all. Mycroft’s just starting off though. “Instead they've got stagnant, and I am angry with you for leaving me then and for coming back now.” You swallow and begin to take your hand off his, but he twists it to hold onto it securely. “I am angry.” He looks at you steadily. “But I have missed you too. I can’t deny that.”

 

You nod. “Y-You’re a good man Mycroft. I think, deep down, I’ve always known that, but it’s like I was using the fact that you might not be as an excuse to pull back because I just couldn't cope with _everything_ any more. Do you understand? I thought I’d be able to move on from it all this way, but I haven’t, not completely, especially not from how I feel for you…” 

 

“I am angry.” He looks out to the water once more. “I took on that job because I had no choice. It was my best way of protecting Sherlock, Eurus and you…and then _you_ left. You left me F/N. The only person who I could talk to properly about these things left.” He looks back at you now and your heart folds in on itself in agony because his eyes are so raw with damage. Everything that had happened might as well have done so just yesterday. You realize then that he’s probably been pushing it all down like you have, trying not to think, trying to work, but always coming back to him and you in the end. It seems like he can’t bear to look at you any longer too because his eyes turn towards the Thames. “That hurt. Why have you come back now?” He stares at you. “To torment me some more?” 

 

You swallow. “I suppose…because, after Alicia came and talked some sense into me at the weekend, I hoped that things might be different now. I know that you’re still doing that job, but I hoped, that because I can handle things better now, because I…because I’ve missed you that if, if it’s not too hard for you we might be able to be friends again at least. I couldn't miss that chance.” 

 

He seems to think about that for a moment and you watch nervously, as he looks out at the fading light. Finally he says, “My family knows about Eurus now. It turns out that she was responsible for the death of Sherlock’s best friend after all.” He looks at you.

 

“Alicia said something,” you say, keen to get back to the matter of him and you and to learn whether you can, at the very least, be friends again. “I'm sorry.” 

 

Mycroft looks away from you for a very long moment, before he looks at you sideways and you don’t understand why there seems to be a twinge of playfulness about his lips. What he’d said isn't funny at all, so why is he smiling now? “I take it that Alicia never mentioned anything else to you then? About my work?” 

 

You do a quick think for a moment. “She said that you see each other quite a bit,” you say in a slow voice, wondering if that is what he means and suddenly you worry again. Would he rather be with Alicia? Have you already lost your chance to be with him? 

 

But Mycroft shakes his head impatiently. Clearly he does not mean that and you feel a trickle of hope run through you again. “I meant how after what happened at Sherrinford recently I no longer have the position that I once did.” Your mouth opens. _“Don’t,”_ he warns, urging you not to say that you’re sorry, “I'm not. I'm already finding it a relief to have fewer matters to deal with. The minor position that I once hated the thought of is now actually quite appealing.” You swallow. “As for Eurus I gave her a violin. Sherlock and she now play together. Mummy called me an idiot boy, but I think she’ll forgive me for what I did in time. Well, I hope that she will.” He does this odd little grimace. 

 

“It sounds like you’re in a better situation with work and that your family is going to be in a good place soon too.” You smile encouragingly at him, feeling pleased that he’s sharing such things with you, but still wondering what it means for him and you. 

 

“Yes-but-well,” he stumbles, before finally getting to the point he says, “I’ve always thought of you very much as my family F/N and I’d like it if you were to become so in an official capacity.” He goes on bended knee in front of you now, clutching at both of your hands. You look at him with raised eyebrows. You hadn’t been expecting this. “You needn't look so surprised,” he jests with some emotion in his tone, “I did try and propose to you, well, just after everything happened at Sherrinford the first time,” he pauses prominently now and the pair of you both try and not think of that torrid time. “But well, I’ve been waiting to hear what you’ve said for a very long time, dreaming about it in fact, in every quiet moment. I know that this might be a bit sudden, me overstepping again.” He rakes his hand quickly through his hair, before he wriggles the ring off his finger. You feel like you might faint. “I know that we need to talk and discuss so many things, need to catch up with each other’s lives again, but F/N L/N, because I am afraid that you might escape me if I don’t otherwise, will you marry me?” He holds up the ring.

 

“I don’t want to escape from you again,” you tell him seriously. Mycroft looks at you intently. “But yes, Mycroft Holmes, I will.” You feel like you’ve been waiting for years to say those words too.

 

He gives you this large watery smile, which alone tells you how much you’ve just pleased him. His eyes shine and it makes you so happy that they’re doing so for a good reason for once. With trembling fingers he puts the ring on your finger. “It’s too big.” You laugh. “”We’ll have to get you a matching one that fits.” 

 

“Yes, we will,” you say in full agreement, allowing him to replace the ring back on his finger again. You stand, and then, with the sun’s light splayed all behind him, you kiss. His hands cup at your cheeks and when you stand on your tiptoes, so that you can kiss him all the better, he groans pleasurably. Your hands rest just beneath his shoulders. 

 

All the memories that have been-the peeking over the tops of newspapers, the jogging, the tidying up, the drawing, the clinging onto each other so tight during every difficult moment-and all the ones to come-Alicia’s relentless teasing at the smiles on both of your faces as you meet up for a drink with her, putting up the drawing you’d done of Mycroft all those years ago in your new home, the talking to both of your families, the kisses and the love between the sheets, culminating in your wedding day-stretch all around you like patches of mist in the dark, and you know in that moment, as he pulls away, takes your hands so gently in his and looks at you with so much tender affection in his eyes that you want every single one of those future memories to take place and you never want to say goodbye to him again. This it now. You’ve made enough peace with your past to accept that it wasn’t all bad and that this one man and Alicia’s friendship are worth bringing into the future with you. You kiss again and everything is complete.


End file.
